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SHAKESPEARE'S 

WIT AND HUMOUR 



BY 
WILLIAM A. LAWSON 




PHILADELPHIA 
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. 

PUBLISHERS 



<"' 



'J 



Copyright, 1912, by 
George W. Jacobs & Company 

Published August, igis 



All rights reserved 
Printed in U. S. /I, 



CC!.A31VHi)2 



PREFACE 

In preparing this work, the aim has been 
to gather into a single volume, of convenient 
size and inviting print, such of Shakespeare's 
wit and humour as may with pleasure and sat- 
isfaction be read in the form of extracts, each 
connected in proper order with the story of the 
play from which it is taken. The matter se- 
lected is not dependent upon mere situation, plot 
or mistakes of identity, to afford enjoyment, 
but so far as has seemed desirable, the plot of 
each drama drawn upon has been briefly told, 
in order to throw light upon the chosen text 
and make the characters better understood and 
appreciated. Relatively large space h?s been 
devoted to Falstaff, as the crowning achieve- 
ment of Shakespeare's comic genius. 

Occasional omissions or breaks in the excerpts 
have been found desirable or unavoidable, for 
various reasons, and are denoted by dots; 
thus, . . . Crossness and indelicacies, which 
the manners and customs of the play-wright's 

S 



PREFACE 



day allowed, or even relished and expected, 
in stage productions, have been excluded, the 
intention being to make the book as well 
suited to the young as to any other class 
of readers. But no words have been changed 
or Interpolated, nor have any other liberties 
been taken with the text. In most cases the 
matter omitted relates merely to the action, or 
otherwise is unsuited to the scope of the work. 

The fun of Shakespeare is scattered with lav- 
ish hand broadcast through the comedies, but 
in the tragedies and most of the historical plays 
it Is either scanty or entirely absent. Perhaps 
not more than one-twentieth part of the mass 
of his dramatic writings may be classed as either 
witty or humourous, the rest being sentimental, 
tragic or otherwise serious. Even of the come- 
dies much is purely sentiment, recital or inci- 
dent, rather than gaiety. So to many persons 
not familiar with his plays, and yet with a lik- 
ing for good, amusing literature, this book of 
selections, with helpful analysis, narrative and 
comment, should prove convenient and profita- 
ble. The author hopes it often may serve, es- 
pecially in the case of youthful readers, as a 
pleasant introduction to a comprehensive study 

6 



PREFACE 



and appreciation of the Shakespearian dramas 
In their entirety. And as the master poet and 
dramatist is unequalled In entertainment, a care- 
fully chosen, copious and fully representative 
collection of his wit and humour scarcely can 
fail to afford delight to Intelligent minds open 
to mirthful Influences. 

William A. Lawson. 



SHAKESPEARE'S WIT AND 

HUMOUR 

The pre-eminence of Shakespeare as a drama- 
tist and poet is due no less to his astonishing 
versatiHty than to the greatness of his powers. 
No other dramatic author has shown so wide a 
range of genius. \ Ancient Greece had poets 
who never have been surpassed in tragedy, but 
none who, like the author of " Macbeth," 
" Othello,'' " Henry IV," " As You Like It," 
" A Midsummer Night's Dream," and " The 
Tempest," exhibited supreme mastery alike in 
tragedy, comedy, and the realm of fancy. 
Shakespeare touched with equal ease the sub- 
lime and the ridiculous, his love of ftjn and in- 
finite command of wit and humour being no 
less remarkable than his poetic fancy, profound 
insight into human nature, and matchless gifts 
of expression. 

While it is only to his wit and humour that 
this book in the main relates, yet blended with 

9 



/^ 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

what is witty or humourous is much of what is 
most beautiful in poetry, most charming in 
fancy, tenderest in sentiment, and wisest in phi- 
losophy of life. So to present from his many 
plays what appropriately may be gathered under 
the title of the present volume is to exhibit not 
only the most admirable and varied wit and de- 
lightful humour, but also a great fund of knowl- 
edge of human nature, charming felicity of 
diction, unapproachable powers of characterisa- 
tion, and the most captivating flights of imagi- 
nation. 

Shakespeare was both a great wit and a great 
humourist. But how shall wit and humour be 
distinguished? It is not uncommon in litera- 
ture to find them confused, and some noted 
writers have undertaken to define humour as 
certain forms of wit, which tends to make con- 
fusion worse confounded. 

It is first to be remarked that wit is always 
purely a mental quality, and, unlike humour, 
can never arise from merely physical objects, 
or things seen. Thus a stage scene or situation 
may be intensely humourous, as where FalstafI 
feigns death on the battlefield, but can never be 
witty. ' 

10 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

The differences between wit and humour are 
numerous, but neither quality can well be 
bounded by a precise definition. Wit is often 
cruel, while true humour is never unkind. Wit 
may be likened to the flash of the lightning; 
humour to the genial warmth of the sun. The 
humourist is always sympathetic, and many great 
humourous writers, such as Charles Dickens, in- 
voke tears as well as smiles and laughter, often 
combining the ludicrous with the pathetic. So 
Thackeray, in speaking of the " tender hu- 
mour '' of Dickens, calls humour " a mixture of 
love and wit." This may not be a very good 
definition, but it serves to direct attention to 
kindness as an essential element of humour. 

A good distinction between wit and humour 
is made in Professor Henry Reed's " Lectures 
on English Literature," in which he says: 

" Wit, I think, may be regarded as a purely 
intellectual process, while humour Is a sense 
of the ridiculous controlled by feeling, and co- 
existent often with the gentlest and deepest 
pathos." 

Another difference, to use an apt saying from 
Shakespeare, Is that " brevity Is the soul of 
wit," while the effect of humour Is often helght- 

II 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

ened by amplification. This is a fortunate 
thing for those professional humourists of the 
present day who are paid by the number of 
words or lines, or by the page or column. 

De Quincey goes so far as to say that humour 
is of a diffusive quality, while wit is concen- 
trated within a few words. But this, although 
generally true, is not always the case. 

Sydney Smith, in one of his essays, describes 
wit as the discovery of an unexpected relation 
between ideas, implying superior intelligence 
and exciting no other emotion than surprise. 
He seems to have overlooked the element of 
pleasure, without which there can scarcely be 
wit. But the pleasure is not usually shared by 
the object or victim of a witticism, however 
keenly it may be enjoyed by others. 

The famous divine considered puns to be 
merely the wit of words, consisting in the dis- 
covery of surprising verbal relations. But he 
pointed out that sometimes a pun is so superior 
as to redeem its species, instancing the case of 
a schoolboy who persisted in pronouncing " pa- 
triarchs '* " partridges," thus giving some one 
opportunity to say the lad was making game 
of the patriarchs. On the whole, however, 

12 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Sydney Smith regarded puns as a low order of 
wit, and " deservedly in bad repute." 

According to the same entertaining author, 
the essence of humour is incongruity which cre- 
ates a sense of surprise and no other emotion. 
If, for example, he says, sympathy be aroused, 
the sense of humour disappears. 

But this is by no means an invariable rule. 
Consider, for instance, the singular blending of 
humour and pathos in the account of Falstaff's 
death by PistoFs wife (Dame Quickly) in 
" Henry V," wherein she says : 

" Nay, sure, he's not in hell; he's in Arthur's 
bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 
. . . Now I, to comfort him, bid him, 'a should 
not think of God; I hoped there was no need 
to trouble himself with any such thoughts 
yet," etc. 

It is to be observed that the incongruity 
which causes mirth may be merely physical, as 
when a pompous and carefully attired person 
excites laughter by slipping on an icy sidewalk 
and waving his arms wildly as he falls, unin- 
jured. Of the same order of humour is buf- 
foonery, such as the antics of a circus clown, 
and likewise mimicry, which is always directed 

13 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

to personal peculiarities or defects of some 

kind. 

Prof. R. G. Moulton has called humour the 
" human interest In the ludicrous.'* It may lie 
In situation, in accident, or in acts, but wit is 
always verbal. 

An element of sympathy always may be dis- 
cerned In Shakespeare's humour, and It is this 
which serves to distinguish it from cold satire, 
such as characterises the writings of Dean Swift. 
This kindly feeling for human weaknesses and 
follies, this broad sympathy Is manifest In 
nearly all the plays. It makes us forget or 
overlook, for the time being at least, the faults 
and vices of Falstaff, in our appreciation of 
the pleasure he affords us by his unfailing 
gaiety. 

But Falstaff Is more witty than humourous, 
although rich In both quahties. His humour- 
ous sense of the contrast between his own huge 
bulk and his diminutive page Is shown when he 
addresses him Ironically as "you giant," and 
says : 

" I do here walk before thee, like a sow, 
that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one. 
If the prince put thee Into my service for any 

14 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

better reason than to set me off, why then I 
have no judgment." 

On the other hand, Falstaff's replies to the 
Chief Justice sparkle with wit. When, for ex- 
ample, the jurist said to him, " God send the 
prince a better companion," the ready retort 
was, '* God send the companion a better prince." 

It has been said that a humourist Is always 
witty, but that a wit may not be at all humor- 
ous. Accordingly we find a number of Shake- 
speare's characters both witty and humourous, 
and some showing wit without humour. Yet 
others exhibit humour without wit. 

Again there are characters, such as Dog- 
berry, Bottom, and Malvollo, who are desti- 
tute of either quality, and still a source of vast 
and unfailing entertainment. The constable 
arouses the liveliest mirth by his pompous Ig- 
norance and self-importance. Bottom by his 
blundering dulness and simplicity, and Olivia's 
steward by his exceeding vanity and arrogant 
pretensions. 

In the same witless category may be placed 
Justice Shallow and Slender, who are among the 
most amusing of all the playwright's creations. 

It will be observed that to make illiterate 

15 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

persons misuse words and phrases is one of 
Shakespeare's favourite means of furnishing en- 
tertainment, as Illustrated by Dogberry, Bot- 
tom, Mistress Quickly, Launcelot Gobbo, 
Pistol, and other characters. Perhaps Dame 
Quickly's ludicrous verbal blunders may have 
given Sheridan the hint for his scarcely less fa- 
mous Mrs. Malaprop. 

The villainous and subtle lago has a keen, 
cynical wit, but, being wholly lacking in sym- 
pathy, he shows no trace of humour. His wit 
and intellectual power would be more often re- 
marked and admired were not his character so 
malevolent and detestable. Note his opinion 
of women: 

" — You are pictures out of doors, 

Bells in your parlours, wild cats In your kitchens, 

Saints in your injuries, devils being offended." 

A very different sort of wit is that of Rosa- 
lind, the heroine of " As You Like It," one 
of the most charming and lovable of Shake- 
speare's women. It bubbles forth in its spar- 
kling freshness and purity like the water of a 
mountain spring, spontaneous, constant, and de- 
lightful. It Is so amiable as to partake some- 

i6 



WITAND HUMOUR 

what of the nature of humour. Her wit is 
chiefly raillery, exhibited in mock seriousness, 
but it never inflicts a wound. As displayed to 
Orlando, it masks a tender, romantic love. 
There is a characteristic touch of Rosalind's wit 
in her remark to her almost equally witty friend 
Celia : 

" Do you not know I am a woman ? when I 
think I must speak." 

Still another kind of wit is that of Mercutio, 
friend of Romeo. It is distinctively masculine, 
good-humoured, gay, light-hearted, and highly 
imaginative. Nothing could be richer in fancy 
or brighter with wit than his well-known lines, 
beginning: 



" Oh, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with 
you — ** 

in which he speaks of a soldier, frighted from 
his sleep, who " swears a prayer or two, and 
sleeps again." 

Mercutio is so rare a character that every 
reader of " Romeo and Juliet " must regret 
his " untimely taking off," in the third act of 
the play. 

17 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

The wit of Portia, in " The Merchant of 
Venice," as displayed in her criticism of her 
suitors, is of a frolicsome and mocking nature. 
It is no less bright than Rosalind's, and is 
coupled with rare discernment and grace of 
diction. One of the most quoted lines from 
our great author is her summary of Monsieur 
Le Bon : 



** God made him, and therefore let him pass 

a man.' 



for " 



Satire is the distinguishing quality of Biron, 
in " Love's Labour's Lost," exhibited in his 
ridicule of the tender passion and of other per- 
sons of the play. His is the oft-quoted saying: 

" Small have continual plodders ever won. 
Save base authority from others' books." 

Even more satirical than Biron, and also ex- 
ceedingly witty, are both Beatrice and Benedick 
In " Much Ado About Nothing." 

The jester In "King Lear" is a "bitter 
fool," whose wit Is of the sharpest, but yet 
of a pathetic quality, because of his manifest 
devotion to his fallen master. It is this char- 
acter who likens " nothing " to " the breath of 

i8 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

an unfed lawyer," and tells of the man who, 
" in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his 
hay.'' 

A peculiar sort of morbid humour is that of 
" the melancholy Jacques," in " As You Like 
It." Among the most familiar and most fre- 
quently quoted passages in the plays are his 
lines beginning, 

" All the world's a stage, 

And all the men and women merely players." 

This picturesque and striking view of man's 
progress from the cradle to the grave is com- 
monly assumed to be Shakespeare's own. But 
when analysed it is seen to be highly cynical, 
making life appear rather a vain and empty 
thing. The ideas are highly characteristic of 
Jacques, but not of the poet's genial and noble 
philosophy, as gathered from his works in gen- 
eral. Jacques is a misanthrope, who finds lit- 
tle good in mankind and nothing much in the 
world to please him. But his strange humour 
and superior intellect make him an interesting 
character and his sayings memorable. 

In marked contrast with Jacques is Touch- 
stone, the professional jester in the same play, 

19 



SHAKESPEAR E ' S 

whose humour Is of a natural and good-natured 
sort. He Is one of the cleverest of the drama- 
tist's " fools," and there Is much wisdom in his 
foolery. As the banished Duke says of him, 
*' He uses his folly like a stalking horse, and, 
under the presentation of that, he shoots his 
wit." 

The same remark applies to all Shakespeare's 
'' fools " or " clowns." 

Two other forms of humour appear in " The 
Taming of the Shrew." The capricious, mad 
humour of Petruchio, who breaks the unruly, 
termagant spirit of Katharine by the exercise of 
a domineering will, under show of kindness, is 
highly ironical. And his apparel is no less fan- 
tastic than his humour. 

Drollery distinguishes the humour of 
Grumlo, Petruchlo's servant, a most comical 
fellow, full of an antic, mischievous spirit. 
One of his peculiarities is illustrated when he 
tantalises the hungry Katharine by offering her 
" the mustard without the beef," and so pro- 
vokes her to beat him. 

The Ironical humour of Hamlet is of a high 
and philosophic order, tinged with sadness. It 
is always gentle, and cloaked under an appear- 

20 



WIT And humour 

ance of seriousness: he never openly jests. 
There Is occasionally a touch of satire In It, 
as In his replies to Polonlus and his Instruc- 
tions to the players. The best of his humour 
appears in his discourse with Horatio and the 
grave-diggers, In which the noble prince moral- 
ises upon mortality, suggesting that Caesar's 
clay " may stop some hole to keep the wind 
away," and that the dust of Alexander may do 
the same office for a bunghole. 

There are numerous other personages In the 
plays — including Autolycus in " The Winter's 
Tale," and the two Dromios In " The Comedy 
of Errors," — who are more or less witty or 
humourous, but it is needless to make particular 
mention of them here. Added to the more 
prominent above noted, they complete a long 
and wonderful procession of clearly defined 
characters, of which no two are alike. In noth- 
ing is Shakespeare's genius for characterisation 
more strikingly displayed than In his comic crea- 
tions, such as Falstaff, and those roles of a grave 
or tragic sort which yet occasionally relax Into 
entertainment, as In the case of Hamlet, whose 
rare humour helps to endear him to all hearts. 

Some of the poet's earlier comedies, such 

21 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

as " Love's Labour's Lost " and *' The Two 
Gentlemen of Verona," teem with puns and 
jesting quibbles. It must be admitted that 
many of these plays upon words are an inferior 
sort of wit. But In this Shakespeare merely 
followed the fashion of his time, which ran to 
all sorts of verbal conceits and trivialities, then 
much heard and admired In all ranks of society, 
from the court of Queen Elizabeth down to the 
lowest orders. Pope overlooked this custom 
In his strictures upon the dramatist's use of 
puns and other verbal subtleties as low and 
trifling. 

In the later plays, puns and quibbles are rela- 
tively rare, and the wit is almost entirely that 
of the relations between Ideas, not merely ver- 
bal resemblances. 



22 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 

" The Two Gentlemen of Verona " is be- 
lieved to have been based upon a Spanish play 
of an earlier period, having a similar story. 

Proteus and Valentine dwell in Verona and 
are close friends. Valentine goes to Milan, 
where he pays court to Silvia, daughter of the 
Duke of Milan. Thither, after a time, Pro- 
teus is sent by his father, against his own incli- 
nation, for he is very much enamoured of Julia, 
a lady of Verona. But Proteus no sooner sees 
Silvia than he conceives a passion for her, and 
treacherously aims to win her from his friend 
Valentine, abandoning his former love for 
Julia. 

The duke is bent on marrying his daughter 
to one Thurio, and Valentine plans an elope- 
ment, of which Proteus warns her father. 
The elopement is prevented, and Valentine is 
banished by the indignant duke. Proteus then 
pretends to aid Thurio, but secretly presses his 
own suit to Silvia, who scornfully repels him 

23 



S H A KESPEARE'S 

and reproaches him for his treachery. She 
ventures forth, in the company of a friend, to 
seek Valentine, who has fallen into the hands 
of outlaws, banished gentlemen like himself, 
and has agreed to become their leader. 

Meanwhile the forlorn Julia has repaired to 
Milan in the disguise of a youth, and enters 
the service of Proteus, whose perfidy she thus 
discovers. But she still conceals her identity, 
under the name of Sebastian, and remains faith- 
ful to him. Together they depart from Milan 
to seek Silvia, and they find her in the forest 
inhabited by the outlaws. Being again repulsed 
by Silvia, Proteus threatens her with violence, 
and is overheard by Valentine, who rescues her 
and denounces him. Proteus makes quick re- 
pentance and is as quickly forgiven by Valen- 
tine. Julia then reveals herself, and the old 
love of Proteus is revived. The duke comes in 
search of his daughter, pardons Valentine, and 
bestows her hand upon him. And so the play 
ends happily. 

" The Two Gentlemen of Verona " is doubt- 
less one of the earliest, if not the first, of Shake- 
speare's plays. It has much humour, but most 
of it is of a quality inferior to that of his later 

24 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

comedies. The fashion of the age ran greatly 
to verbal quibbles, and wit was considered to 
lie in ingenious juggling with words. The 
dramatist merely followed custom in this re- 
gard, but in doing so incurred the reproach of 
some modern critics. 

Usage in the Elizabethan period required 
the introduction of a court fool or clown, in 
compositions for the stage, and in the present 
piece this conventional requirement is met by 
the substitution of servants, Launce and Speed, 
as fun-makers. 

The play opens in Verona, with an exchange 
of friendly sentiment between Proteus and Val- 
entine. Proteus seeks to dissuade his friend 
from going to Milan, and Valentine replies: 

Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus; 
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. 



Pro, If ever danger do environ thee, 
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, 
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine. 

VaL And on a love-book pray for my suc- 
cess. 
Pro, Upon some book I love Fll pray for 
thee. 

25 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Val, That's on some shallow story of deep 
love, 
How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont. 

Pro, That's a deep story of a deeper love; 
For he was more than over shoes in love. 
Val, 'Tis true; for you are over boots in 
love, 
And yet you never swam the Hellespont. 

Pro, Over the boots! nay, give me not the 

boots. 
Val. No, I will not, for it boots thee not. 
Pro, ^ ^ What? 

Val, To be in love, where scorn is bought 
with groans; 
Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading 

moment's mirth 
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights: 
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; 
If lost, why then a grievous labour won; 
However, but a folly bought with wit. 
Or else a wit by folly vanquished. 

• •••••' 

Pro, 'Tis love you cavil at; I am not Love. 

Val, Love is your master, for he masters 
you: 
And he that is so yoked by a fool, 
Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. 

Pro, Yet writers say, As in the sweetest 

The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
Inhabits in the finest wits of all. 

26 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Val. And writers say, As the most forward 
bud \ 
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, 
Even so by love the young and tender wit 
Is turn'd to folly; blasting in the bud, 
Losing his verdure even in the prime. 
And all the fair effects of future hopes. 
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee 
That art a votary to fond desire ? 
Once more adieu. 

Valentine departs and Speed, his servant, 
enters. 

Proteus. Gav'st thou my letter to Julia? 
Speed. Ay, sir. 

• ••••• 

Pro. But what said she? did she nod? 

Speed. [^Nodding. ^ Ay. 

Pro. Nod — Ay — why, that's noddy. 

Speed, You mistook, sir; I say she did nod: 
and you ask me if she did nod; and I say. Ay. 

Pro. And that set together is — noddy. 

Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set 
it together, take it for your pains. 

Pro. No, no; you shall have it for bearing 
the letter. 

Speed. Well, I perceive I must be fain to 
bear with you. 

Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me? 

27 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Speed. Marry, sir, the letter very orderly: 
having nothing but the word noddy for my 
pains. 

Pro. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. 

Speed, And yet it cannot overtake your 
slow purse. 

Pro. Come, come; open the matter In brief: 
what said she? 

Speed. Open your pnrse, that the money 
and the matter may be both at once delivered. 

Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains : what 
said she? 

Speed. Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win 
her. 

Pro. Why, couldst thou perceive so much 
from her? 

Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all 
from her; no, not so much as a ducat for de- 
livering your letter: and being so hard to me 
that brought your mind, I fear she'll prove as 
hard to you In telling her mind. Give her no 
token but stones ; for she's as hard as steel. 

Pro. What! said she nothing? 

Speed. No, not so much as — Take this for 
thy pains. 

The scene changes and a dialogue occurs be- 
tween Julia and Lucetta, her waiting-woman. 

Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen 
That every day with parle encounter me, 

28 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

In thy opinion which is worthiest love? 

• ••••• 

What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus? 
Luc. Lord, lord! to see what folly reigns 

in us ! 
Jul, How now ! what means this passion at 

his name? 
Luc, Pardon, dear madam; 'tis a passing 

shame 
That I, unworthy body as I am, 
Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. 

Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? 
Luc. Then thus : of many good I think him 

best. 
Jul. Your reason? 

Luc. I have no other but a woman's reason; 
I think him so, because I think him so. 

Jul. And wouldst thou have me cast my love 

on him? 
Luc. Ay, if you thought your love not cast 

away. 
Jul. Why, he of all the rest hath never 

moved me. 
Luc. Yet he of all the rest, I think, best 

loves ye. 
Jul. His little speaking shows his love but 

small. 
Luc. Fire that is closest kept burns most of 

all. 
Jul. They do not love that do not show 

their love. 

29 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Luc. O, they love least that let men know 

their love. 
Jul. I would I knew his mind. 
Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. 

l^Gives a letter. 

Julia takes the love-letter, which Lucetta 
says she thinks Is from Proteus, and, pretend- 
ing to be angry, gives It back to Lucetta, to be 
returned, and dismisses her summarily. 

Jul. And yet, I would I had o'erlook'd the 

letter. 
It were a shame to call her back again. 
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 
What fool Is she, that knows I am a maid. 
And would not force the letter to my view? 
Since maids. In modesty, say No to that 
Which they would have the profferer construe 

Ay. 
Fie, fie ! how wayward Is this foolish love, 
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse. 
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod! 
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence. 
When willingly I would have had her here ! 
How angrily I taught my brow to frown. 
When Inward joy enforced my heart to smile! 
My penance Is to call Lucetta back, 
And ask remission for my folly past : — 
What, ho I Lucetta ? 

30 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Re-enter Lucetta. 

Luc. What would your ladyship? 

Jul. Is it near dinner time? 

Luc, I would it were; 

That you might kill your stomach on your meat, 
And not upon your maid. 

Julia, still professing unconcern, contrives to 
recover the letter, and, having read It, tears 
It and throws it down. Lucetta retires, remark- 
ing, aside: 

. . . she would be best pleased 
To be so angered with another letter. 

Julia then confesses to herself her love for 
Proteus, kissing each piece of paper for amends. 

The succeeding act finds Valentine and Speed 
In Milan. 

Val. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know 
Madam Silvia? 

Speed. She that your worship loves? 

Val. Why, how know you that I am in love ? 

Speed. Marry, by these special marks : first 
you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreath 
your arms like a mal-content; to relish a love- 
song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like 
one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a 
school-boy that had lost his A B C ; to weep, like 

31 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

a young wench that had burled her grandam; 
to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, hke 
one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a 
beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when 
you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you 
walked, to walk like one of the lions; when 
you fasted, it was presently after dinner; 
when you looked sadly, it was for want of 
money; and now you are metamorphosed with 
a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can 
hardly think you my master. 

• ••••• 

Veil, But tell me, dost thou know my lady 
Silvia? 

Speed. She that you gaze on so, as she sits 
at supper? 

Val. Hast thou observed that? even she I 
mean. 

Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 

Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on 
her, and yet knowest her not? 

Speed. Is she not hard favoured, sir? 

Val. Not so fair, boy, as v/ell favoured. 

Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 

Val. What dost thou know? 

Speed. That she is not so fair as (of you) 
well favoured. 

Val. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, 
but her favour infinite. 

Speed. That's because the one is painted 
and the other out of all count. 

32 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Val. How painted? and how out of count. 

Speed, Marry, sir, so painted, to make her 
fair, that no man counts of her beauty. 

VaL How esteemest thou me? I account 
of her beauty. 

Speed. You never saw her since she was 
deformed. 

Val. How long hath she been deformed? 

Speed. Ever since you loved her. 

Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her; 
and still I see her beautiful. 

Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 

Val. Why? 

Speed. Because love is blind. 

• ••••• 

Val. Belike, boy, then you are in love: for 
last morning you could not see to wipe my 
shoes. 

Speed. True, sir; I was in love with my 
bed; I thank you, you swinged me for my love, 
which makes me the bolder to chide you for 
yours. 

A later scene introduces Launce, servant to 
Proteus, upon a street in Verona, leading his 
dog. 

Laun. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have 
done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have 
this very fault: I have received my proportion, 
like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir 

33 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Proteus to the Imperlars court. I think Crab 
my dog to be the sourest-natured dog that lives : 
my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sis- 
ter crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing 
her hands, and all our house in a great per- 
plexity; yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed 
one tear : he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and 
has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew 
would have wept to have seen our parting; why, 
my grandam having no eyes, look you, wept 
herself blind at my parting. Nay, Fll show 
you the manner of it: this shoe is my father; — 
no, this left shoe is my father; — no, no, 
this left shoe is my mother; nay, that can- 
not be so neither; yes, it is so, it is so; it 
hath the worser sole. This shoe with the hole 
in it is my mother, and this my father. A 
vengeance on't! there 'tis. Now, sir, this staff 
is my sister; for, look you, she is as white as a 
lily and as small as a wand; this hat is Nan our 
maid; I am the dog: — no, the dog is himself, 
and I am the dog, — O, the dog is me, and I am 
myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; 
Father J your blessing; — now should not the 
shoe speak a word for weeping; now should I 
kiss my father; well, he weeps on: — now come 
I to my mother (O, that she could speak now !) 
like a wood woman ; — well, I kiss her : — why 
there 'tis; here's my mother's breath up and 
down; now come I to my sister; mark the moan 
she makes : now the dog all this while sheds not 

34 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

a tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the 
dust with my tears. 

Enter Panthino (a servant). 

Pan, Launce, away, away aboard; thy mas- 
ter is shipped, and thou art to post after with 
oars. What's the matter! why weep'st thou, 
man? Away, ass; you will lose the tide if you 
tarry any longer. 

Latin. It is no matter if the tied were lost; 
for it is the unkindest tied that ever man tied. 

Pan, What's the unkindest tide ? 

Laun. Why, he that's tied here: Crab my 
dog. 

Pan, Tut, man; I mean thou'lt lose the 
flood : and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage ; 
and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master; and 
in losing thy master, lose thy service; and, in 
losing thy service, — Why dost thou stop my 
mouth ? 

Laun. For fear thou shouldst lose thy 
tongue. 

The Duke of Milan, in a scene with Valen- 
tine, seeks to discover the latter's intentions re- 
garding Silvia. 

Duke. There is a lady, sir, in Milan, here. 
Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy. 
And nought esteems my aged eloquence : 

3S 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Now, therefore, would I have thee to my 

tutor, — 
For long agone I have forgot to court : 
Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd; — 
How and which way I may bestow myself 
To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 

Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not 

words ; 
Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind. 
More than quick words do move a woman's 

mind. 
Duke. But she did scorn a present I sent 

her. 
VaL A woman sometimes scorns what best 

contents her : 
Send her another; never give her o'er; 
For scorn at first makes after-love the more. 
If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you. 
But rather to beget more love in you : 
If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone; 
For why, the fools are mad if left alone. 
Take no repulse whatever she doth say: 
For, get you gone, she doth not mean away: 
Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; 
Though ne'er so black, say they have angels* 

faces. 
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, 
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 



z^ 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 

" Love's Labour's Lost " is one of the most 
frolicsome and vivacious, and perhaps the light- 
est, of Shakespeare's comedies. Like " The 
Two Gentlemen of Verona," it exhibits his ear- 
liest and most immature style. It is charac- 
terised by much rhyming, constant plays upon 
words, and studied repartee, its incessant quib- 
bling being in accordance with the dramatic 
fashion of the time. In these earlier composi- 
tions of the author, the wit consists rather in 
the disclosure of resemblances between words 
than between ideas, the latter being a much 
higher order of wit, which reached its culmina- 
tion in Falstaff. 

The scene of this play is a park in Navarre, 
where King Ferdinand pledges himself and his 
attendant lords — Biron, Longaville, and Du- 
main — to an ascetic life for a period of three 
years, during which they are not to see any 
woman, are to spend their time in study, to eat 
but one meal daily, to fast one day In each 

37 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

week, and to sleep not more than three hours 
in the twenty-four. But the unexpected com- 
ing of a princess of France on a diplomatic mis- 
sion, attended by her ladies — Rosaline, Maria, 
and Katherine — of necessity suspends this 
programme for the time being, and results in 
the complete forsaking of their vows by the 
king and his courtiers, through the influence of 
the tender passion. 

When the king unfolds his academic scheme, 
Longaville at once accepts it, saying: 

I am resolv'd; 'tis but a three years' fast: 
The mind shall banquet though the body pine: 
Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits 
Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. 

But Biron at first protests, in this wise : 

Study is like the heaven's glorious sun. 

That will not be deep-search'd with saucy 
looks ; 
Small have continual plodders ever won. 

Save base authority from others' books. 
These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights, 

That give a name to every fixed star, 
Have no more profit of their shining nights 

Than those that walk and wot not what they 
are. 

38 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Too much to know is to know naught but fame ; 
And every godfather can give a name. 

King. How well he's read, to reason against 
reading ! 

A curious character in this play is Don 
Armado, a pompous and fantastical Spaniard, 
whose page is Moth, a bright-witted lad. Here 
is an example of their talk: 

Arm. I will hereupon confess I am in love : 
and, as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in 
love with a base wench. If drawing my sword 
against the humour of affection would deliver 
me from the reprobate thought of it, I would 
take desire prisoner, and ransom him to any 
French courtier for a new devised courtesy. I 
think scorn to sigh; methinks, I should out- 
swear Cupid. Comfort me, boy; what great 
men have been in love? 

Moth. Hercules, master. 

Arm. Most sweet Hercules ! — More au- 
thority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my 
child, let them be men of good repute and car- 
riage. 

Moth. Samson, master; he was a man of 
good carriage, great carriage, — for he carried 
the town-gates on his back like a porter : and he 
was in love. 

Arm. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed 
Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much 

39 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in 
love too: — who was Samson's love, my dear 
Moth? 

Moth, A woman, master. 

The satirical Biron falls in love with Rosa- 
line, a lady in the train of the princess, and thus 
he soliloquises: 

O I — and I, forsooth, in love ! I, that have 

been love's whip; 
A very beadle to a humourous sigh ; 
A critic; nay, a night-watch constable; 
I A domineering pedant o'er the boy, 
iThan whom no mortal so magnificent! 
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy; 
This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid: 
Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms. 
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, 
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents. . . . 
What! I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife! 
A woman, that is like a German clock, 
Still a-repairing; ever out of frame; 
And never going aright, being a watch. 
But being watch'd that it may still go right ! 

Among the odd characters in the play are 
Holofernes, a pedantic schoolmaster; Sir Na- 
thaniel, a foolish curate fond of big words, and 
Costard, a clown. The following illustrates 
their respective qualities: 

40 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Nath. (to Holof ernes.) I praise God for 
you, sir; your reasons at dinner have been sharp 
and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, 
witty without affection, audacious without im- 
pudency, learned without opinion, and strange 
without heresy. I did converse this quondam 
day with a companion of the king's, who is in- 
tituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de 
Arm a do. 

Hoi. Novi hominem tanquam te: his hu- 
mour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his 
tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majes- 
tical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, 
and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, 
too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, 
as I may call it. 

Nath, A most singular and choice epithet. 

[Takes out his table-hook. 

Hoi. He draweth out the thread of his ver- / 
bosity finer than the staple of his argu- t 
ment. 



Moth. They have been at a great feast of 
languages and stolen the scraps. 

[To Costard, aside. 

Cost. O, they have lived long on the alms- 
basket of words! I marvel thy master hath 
not eaten thee for a word; for thou art not so 
long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus : 
thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. 

41 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Biron gives this satirical description of a 
courtier accompanying the princess: 

This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas, 
And utters it again when God doth please : 
He Is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares 
At wakes, and wassels, meetings, markets, fairs; 
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know. 
Have not the grace to grace It with such show. 
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve, — 
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve: 
He can carve too, and lisp : why this Is he 
That kiss'd away his hand In courtesy: 
This Is the ape of form, monsieur the nice. 
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice 
In honourable terms; nay, he can sing 
A mean most meanly; and In ushering. 
Mend him who can: the ladles call him sweet; 
The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet: 
This Is the flower that smiles on every one. 
To show his teeth as white as whale's bone : 
And consciences that will not die In debt 
Pay him the due of honey-tongu'd Boyet% 



42 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 

There Is no little fun In " The Comedy of 
Errors,'* but in the main it arises from humour- 
ous situations dependent upon mistakes of iden- 
tity. The play has thus more of the elements 
of farce than of true comedy, and, if presented 
by a capable dramatic company, is much better 
enjoyed and appreciated in the theatre than 
when read. It is apparently based upon a 
Roman comedy, the " Menaechmi " of Plautus, 
but is considered much superior to the Latin 
original. 

The plot lies In a series of laughable errors 
arising from the Impossibility of distinguishing 
between the twin brothers Antlpholus, and also 
between their twin servants, the two Dromios. 
The comic dialogue suffers by comparison with 
later comedies by the same author. Here Is a 
specimen, in which Antlpholus of Syracuse 
matches his wit with that of his servant Dromio : 

Ant, S. Well, sir, learn to jest in good time : 
There's a time for all things. 

43 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Dro, S, I durst have denied that before you 
were so choleric. 

Ant. S. By what rule, sir? 

Dro, S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the 
plain bald pate of Father Time himself. 

Ant, S, Let's hear it. 

Dro. S. There's no time for a man to re- 
cover his hair, that grows bald by nature. 

Ant. S, May he not do it by line and re- 
covery? 

Dro. S, Yes, to pay a fine for a peruke, and 
recover the lost hair of another man. 

Ant. S. Why is Time such a niggard of hair, 
being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement? 

Dro. S. Because it is a blessing that he be- 
stows on beasts : and what he hath scanted men 
in hair he hath given them in wit. 

Ant. S. Why, but there's many a man with 
more hair than wit. 

Dro. S. Not a man of those but he hath the 
wit to lose his hair. 

The other Antipholus gives this notable de- 
scription of Pinch, who figures in the play: 

They brought one Pinch; a hungry lean-faced 

villain, 
A mere anatomy, a mountebank, 
A thread-bare juggler, and a fortune-teller; 
A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch; 
A living dead man. 

44 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 

The '* shrew " is Katharine, one of the two 
daughters of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Pad- 
ua. Petruchio is a gentleman of Verona, who 
comes to Padua for the avowed purpose of mar- 
rying for money. He Is warned of Katharine's 
violent temper and shrewish disposition, but 
nevertheless becomes a suitor for her hand and 
a share of her father's wealth. He is a man 
of bold and enterprising spirit, possessed of a 
wild, fantastic humour, who assumes an imperi- 
ous attitude toward Katharine, the better to sub- 
due her self-will, unruly nature, and Insolent 
demeanour. His method Is to mask his domi- 
neering tactics with an air of kindness and 
solicitude, but. If his methods are rough and 
overbearing, he Is not bad-hearted, and Is only 
violent when It suits his purpose to be so. 

Grumio, servant to Petruchio, has a pecu- 
liarly antic disposition and Is Invincibly droll 
under all circumstances. Bianca, a sister of 
Katharine, Is of a sweet nature. She has three 
suitors — Lucentio, Gremlo, and Hortenslo. 

45 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Petruchio appears with Grumio, in the open- 
ing scene of the play, before the house of his 
friend Hortensio, in Padua. 

Pet, . . . Here, sirrah Grumio; knock, I 

say. 
Gru, Knock, sir! whom should I knock? is 
there any man has rebused your worship ? 
Pet, Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. 
Gru. Knock you here, sir? why, sir, what 
am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir? 
Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate. 
And rap me well, or I'll knock your knave's 
pate. 
Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome: I 
should knock you first, 
And then I know after who comes by the worst. 

Pet. Will it not be ? 
Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock Til wring it : 
I'll try how you can sol^ fa, and sing it. 

\^He wrings Grumio by the ears. 
Gru. Help, masters, help ! my master is 

mad. 
Pet, Now, knock when I bid you; sirrah 
villain ! 

Enter Hortensio. 

Hor. How now ! what's the matter? — My 
old friend Grumio ! and my good friend Petru- 
chio ! . . . 

46 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Pet, SIgnlor Hortensio, come you to part 
the fray? ... 

Hor, . . . Rise, Grumlo, rise; we will 

compound this quarrel. 
Gru. ... If this be not a lawful cause 
for me to leave his service, — look you, sir, — he 
bid me knock him, and rap him soundly, sir: 
well, was it fit for a servant to use his master 
so. . . . 

Whom would to God I had well knock'd at first. 
Then had not Grumio come by the worst. 
Pet, A senseless villain ! — Good Horten- 
sio, 
I bade the rascal knock upon your gate. 
And could not get him for my heart to do it. 
Gru, Knock at the gate ! — O, heavens I 
Spake you not these words plain, — Sirrah 

knock me here, 
Rap me here, knock me well, and knock me 

soundly? 
And come you now with — knocking at the 
gate? 
Pet. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise 

you. 
Hor, Petruchio, patience; I am Grumlo's 
pledge. 

In a subsequent scene, Hortensio Introduces 
Petruchio to Gremio, and says Petruchio 



47 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Will undertake to woo curst Katharine ; 
Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. 

• ••••• 

Pet, I know she is an irksome, brawling 
scold. 

• ••••• 

Grem, . . . But will you woo this wild-cat? 

Pet. Will I live ? 

Gru. Will he woo her? ay, or I'll hang her. 

Pet. Why came I hither but to that intent? 
Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? 
Have I not in my time heard lions roar? 
Have I not heard the sea, puff'd up with winds, 
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? 
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field. 
And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? 
Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets 

clang? 
And do you tell me of a woman's tongue; 
That gives not half so great a blow to hear, 
As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire? 
Tush ! tush ! fear boys with bugs. 

Gru, For he fears none. 

Hortensio disguises himself in order that, in 
the capacity of a music teacher, he may pay 
court to Bianca, and is introduced to her home 
by Petruchio. Petruchio is assured by Baptista 
that if he marries Katharine he shall have 

48 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

twenty thousand crowns, down, and on the 
father's' death half of all his lands. 

Hortensio, who has undertaken to give 
Katharine a lesson on the lute, " re-enters with 
his head broken." 

Bap, How now, my friend! why dost thou 

look so pale? 
Hor. For fear, I promise you, If I look 

pale. 
Bap, What, will my daughter prove a good 

musician? 
Hor. I think she'll sooner prove a soldier: 
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. 

Bap, Why, then thou canst not break her 

to the lute? 
Hor, Why, no; for she hath broke the lute 
to me. 
I did but tell her she mistook her frets, 
And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering, 
When, with a most Impatient devilish spirit. 
Frets, call you these? quoth she; Vll fume with 

them: 
And, with that word, she struck me on the head, 
And through the instrument my pate made way; 
And there I stood amazed for awhile. 
As on a pillory, looking through the lute. 
While she did call me rascal fiddler 
And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile 

terms. 
As she had studied to misuse me so. 

49 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; 
I love her ten times more than e'er I did: 
O, how I long to have some chat with her ! 
Bap. Well, go with me, and be not so dis- 
comfited: 
Proceed in practice with my younger daughter: 
She's apt to learn, and thankful for good 

turns. — 
Signior Petruchio, will you go with us, 
Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? 
Pet. I pray you do: I will attend her here. 
{^Exeunt Bap., Gre., Tra., and Hor. 
And woo her with some spirit when she comes. 
Say that she rail; why, then I'll tell her plain 
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale: 
Say that she frown; I'll say that she looks as 

clear 
As morning roses newly washed with dew: 
Say she be mute, and will not speak a word; 
Then I'll commend her volubility. 
And say she uttereth piercing eloquence: 
If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks, 
As though she bid me stay by her a week: 
If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day 
When I shall ask the banns, and when be mar- 
ried — 
But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak. 

Enter Katharine. 

Good-morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I 
hear. 

50 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Kath, Well have you heard, but something 

hard of hearing: 
They call me Katharine that do talk of me. 
Pet. You lie, In faith; for you are call'd 

plain Kate, 
And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst; 
But, Kate, the prettiest Kate In Christendom, 
Kate of Kate-Hall, my super-dainty Kate, 
For dainties are all cates; and therefore, Kate, 
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; — 
Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town. 
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, — 
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, — 
Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife. 
Kath. Mov'd I in good time: let him that 

mov'd you hither 
Remove you hence. 

Petruchio, undaunted by Katharine's sharp 
tongue, proceeds with his strange wooing, and 
she strikes him, to try if he be a gentleman, she 
says. He swears he will cuff her, if she strikes 
again, but remains unruffled, returning bold com- 
phments for her insults, and declaring he will 
marry her, willing or unwilling. Her father 
enters, and Petruchio, disregarding her terma- 
gant rage, announces that they have agreed so 
well together that " upon Sunday is the wed- 
ding day." Katharine declares: 

51 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

rU see thee hanged on Sunday first. 

Baptlsta, however, takes Petruchio's word 
for it, despite her protestations, says " it is a 
match," and Petruchio and Katharine severally 
leave the room. 

On the day appointed for the wedding every- 
thing is in readiness, the guests are assembled, 
but Petruchio has not returned from his an- 
nounced journey to Venice, and Katharine is 
furiously angry and ashamed. She vents her 
rage, and goes out weeping, but Blondello, a 
servant, then enters and announces: 

Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and 
an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice 
turn'd; a pair of boots that have been candle- 
cases, one buckled, another laced; an old rusty 
sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a 
broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken 
points : his horse hipped with an old mothy sad- 
dle, and stirrups of no kindred; besides, pos- 
sessed with the glanders, and like to mose in 
the chine; troubled with the lampass. Infected 
with the fashions, full of wind-galls, sped with 
spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of 
the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, be- 
gnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and 
shoulder-shotten ; ne'er legged before, and with 

52 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep's 
leather, which, being restrained to keep him 
from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now 
repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced, 
and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath 
two letters for her name, fairly set down in 
studs, and here and there pieced with pack- 
thread. 

Grumio accompanies his master, in like 
strange costume, " caparisoned like the horse." 

Despite all protests, Petruchio insists upon 
being married *' In his mad attire," and swears 
so loudly in church during the ceremony that 
the amazed priest lets fall the book. And as 
the holy man stoops to pick It up the bridegroom 
gives him such a cuff that down go both book 
and priest. At which the bride " trembled and 
shook." 

After the ceremony Petruchio calls for wine, 
drinks, and throws the dregs In the sexton's 
face ; then kisses the bride 

. . . with such a clamorous smack 

That, at the parting, all the church did echo. 

Petruchio comes with his bride to her fa- 
ther's house, where the wedding feast Is ready. 

53 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Pet, Gentlemen and friends, I thank you 
for your pains; 
I know you think to dine with me to-day, 
And have prepar'd great store of wedding 

cheer; 
But so It is, my haste doth call me hence. 
And therefore here I mean to take my leave. 

Bap. Is't possible you will away to-night? 

Pet. I must away to-day, before night come : 
Make it no wonder; if you knew my business, 
You would entreat me rather go than stay. 
And, honest company, I thank you all. 
That have beheld me give away myself 
To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife: 
Dine with my father, drink a health to me; 
For I must hence; and farewell to you all. 

Tranio. Let us entreat you stay till after 
dinner. 

Pet. It may not be. 

Gre, Let me entreat you. 

Pet. It cannot be. 

Kath. Let me entreat you. 

Pet. I am content. 

Kath. Are you content to stay? 

Pet. I am content you shall entreat me stay; 
But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. 

Kath. Now, if you love me, stay. 

Pet. Grumio, my horse. 

Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have 
eaten the horses. 

Kath. Nay, then, 

54 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day; 
No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself. 
The door is open, sir; there lies your way; 
You may be jogging whiles your boots are 

green ; 
For me, I'll not be gone till I please myself: 
'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom. 
That take it on you at the first so roundly. 
Pet, O Kate, content thee; pr'ythee, be not 

angry. 
Kath. I will be angry; what hast thou to 
do? — 
Father, be quiet: he shall stay my leisure. 
Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. 
Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal 

dinner : 
I see a woman may be made a fool 
If she had not a spirit to resist. 

Pet, They shall go forward, Kate, at thy 

command. — 
Obey the bride, you that attend on her; 
Go to the feast, revel and domineer. 
Carouse full measure to her maidenhead; 
Be mad and merry, — or go hang yourselves : 
But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. 
Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor 

fret. 
I will be master of what is mine own : 
She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, 
My household stuff, my field, my barn. 
My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything; 

SS 



SHAKESPEARES 

And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; 
I'll bring mine action on the proudest he 
That stops my way in Padua. — Grumio, 
Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with 

thieves; 
Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. — 
Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch 

thee, Kate; 
I'll buckler thee against a million. 

[Exeunt Pet., Kath., and Gru. 
Bap, Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet 

ones. 
Gre, Went they not quickly, I should die 

with laughing. 
Tra. Of all mad matches, never was the 

like ! 
Luc, Mistress, what's your opinion of your 

sister? 
Bian. That, being mad herself, she's madly 

mated. 
Gre, I warrant him, Petruchio Is Kated. 

Of the wedding journey to Petruchlo's house, 
Grumio talks to himself on his arrival In the 
hall : 

Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad mas- 
ters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so 
beaten? was ever man so rayed? was ever man 
so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, 
and they are coming after to warm them. Now, 

56 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

were not I a little pot, and soon hot, my very 
lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the 
roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I 
should come by a fire to thaw me : — but I, with 
blowing the fire, shall warm myself; for, con- 
sidering the weather, a taller man than I will 
take cold. — Holla, ho ! Curtis ! 

Enter Curtis. 

Curt, Who is that calls so coldly? 

Gru, A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou 
mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with 
no greater a run but my head and my neck. A 
fire, good Curtis. 

Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, 
Grumio? 

Gru. O, ay, Curtis, ay: and therefore fire, 
fire ; cast on no water. 

Curt, Is she so hot a shrew as she's re- 
ported? 

Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this 
frost; but, thou knowest, winter tames man, 
woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old 
master, and my new mistress, and myself, fel- 
low Curtis. 

The servant Curtis is eager for news of the 
journey, and Grumio at length gratifies him: 

Gru, Tell thou the tale : — but hadst thou 
not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how 

51 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

her horse fell, and she under her horse; thou 
shouldst have heard, in how miry a place; how 
she was bemolled; how he left her with the 
horse upon her; how he beat me because her 
horse stumbled; how she waded through the 
dirt to pluck him off me; how he swore; how 
she prayed — that never pray'd before; how I 
cried; how the horses ran away; how her bridle 
was burst; how I lost my crupper; with many 
things of worthy memory; which now shall die 
in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to 
thy grave. 

Curt. By this reckoning, he is more shrew 
than she. 

When Petruchio and Katharine arrive, he 
makes a show of welcoming her to his home, 
but abuses and beats the men-servants. The 
pair sit down to dinner, but he declares the cook 
has burnt the meat, and throws it and the 
dishes about the stage. So bride and groom 
go fasting to bed, one of the servants remark- 
ing: " He kills her In her own humour," which 
is the key to Petruchio's system of taming. 

Petruchio presently returns to the dlning- 
hall, and in a monologue thus further discloses 
his method: 



58 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat; 
Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall 

not; 
As with the meat, some undeserved fault 
I'll find about the making of the bed; 
And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster. 
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets : — 
Ay, and amid this hurly, I intend 
That all is done in reverend care of her; 
And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night : 
And, if she chance to nod, I'll rail and brawl, 
And with the clamour keep her still awake. 
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness: 
And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong 

humour. 
He that knows better how to tame a shrew, 
Now let him speak; 'tis charity to show. 

A subsequent scene brings out Katharine's 
discontent and Grumio's humourous disposi- 
tion. 

Kath. The more my wrong, the more his 
spite appears: 
What, did he marry me to famish me? 
Beggars, that come unto my father's door, 
Upon entreaty have a present alms; 
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity: 
But I, — who never knew how to entreat, 
Nor never needed that I should entreat, — 
Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep; 

59 



S H A K E S P E A RE'S 

With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed : 
And that which spites me more than all these 

wants, 
He does it under name of perfect love; 
As who would say, if I should sleep or eat, 
'Twere deadly sickness or else present death. — 
I pr^ythee go, and get me some repast; 
I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 
Gru. What say you to a neat's foot? 
Kath. 'TIs passing good; I pr'ythee let me 

have it. 
Gru, I fear it is too choleric a meat: 
How say you to a fat tripe, finely broil'd? 
Kath. I like it well: good Grumlo, fetch it 

me. 
Gru, I cannot tell ; I fear 'tis choleric. 
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard? 
Kath, A dish that I do love to feed upon. 
Gru, Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. 
Kath, Why, then the beef, and let the 

mustard rest. 
Gru, Nay, then I will not; you shall have 
the mustard. 
Or else you get no beef of Grumlo. 

Kath. Then both, or one, or anything thou 

wilt. 
Gru, Why, then the mustard without the 

beef. 
Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false delud- 
ing slave. [Beats him. 

60 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Petruchio comes In with a dish of meat, but 
compels Katharine to thank him before he al- 
lows her to eat. A tailor then enters with a 
new gown that has been made for the bride. 

Pet, Thy gown ? why, ay ; — Come, tailor, 
let us see't. 

mercy, God ! what masquing stuff Is here ? 
What's this? a sleeve? 'tis like a deml-cannon: 
What, up and down, carv'd like an apple-tart? 
Here's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and 

slash. 
Like to a censer in a barber's shop : — 
Why, what, o' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou 
this? 
Hor. I see she's like to have neither cap 
nor gown. \_Aside. 

Tai. You bid me make it orderly and well, 
According to the fashion and the time. 

Pet, Marry, and did; but If you be remem- 
ber'd, 

1 did not bid you mar it to the time. 
Go, hop me over every kennel home. 

For you shall hop without my custom, sir: 
I'll none of It : hence ! make your best of it. 

Kath, I never saw a better-fashion'd gown. 
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more com- 
mendable: 
Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. 

Pet, Why, true; he means to make a pup- 
pet of thee. 

6i 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Tai, She says your worship means to make 

a puppet of her. 
Pet, O monstrous arrogance ! Thou llest, 

thou thread, 
Thou thimble, 
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, 

nail, 
Thou flea, thou nit, thou-winter-cricket thou ! — 
Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of 

thread? 
Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant; 
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard. 
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou 

liv'st ! 
I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown. 

The tailor protests that the gown was made 
as ordered, but Petruchio refuses to take It, and 
sends him away. 

Pet, Well, come, my Kate; we will unto 

your father's 
Even in these honest mean habiliments: 
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; 
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich; 
And as the sun breaks through the darkest 

clouds. 
So honour peereth In the meanest habit. 
What, Is the jay more precious than the lark, 
Because his feathers are more beautiful? 
Or is the adder better than the eel, 

62 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Because his painted skin contents the eye? 

no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse 
For this poor furniture and mean array. 

If thou account'st it shame, lay it on me. 

Through such treatment Katharine becomes 
fully subdued and gentle-mannered. And at 
a banquet in her father's house Petruchio wins 
a wager that he has the most obedient wife in 
all the company. The test is that each hus- 
band shall send to the parlor for his wife, and 
Katharine is the only one who comes immedi- 
ately and without cavil. Petruchio charges her 
to tell " these headstrong women '' what duty 
they owe their " lords and husbands/' and she 
responds thus eloquently: 

Such duty as the subject owes the prince, 
Even such a woman oweth to her husband; 
And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, 
And not obedient to his honest will. 
What is she but a foul contending rebel, 
And graceless traitor to her loving lord? — 

1 am asham'd that women are so simple 

To offer war where they should kneel for peace. 

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, 

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. 



^z 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHPS DREAM 

" A Midsummer Night's Dream *' is a play 
of sentiment and fancy, of illusion and enchant- 
ment. In this production the poet's Imagina- 
tion reached Its highest development. It links 
romance with fairyland, so that *' beings lighter 
than the gossamer and smaller than the cow- 
slip's bell " are magnified to human proportions 
and set upon the stage, to add charm and amuse- 
ment to Its succession of diverting scenes and 
incidents. 

Apart from the entertainment arising from 
situation and enchantment, the humour of the 
play Is found chiefly in an interlude, which is 
the undertaking by a number of Illiterate me- 
chanics to enact the piece known as " Pyramus 
and Thisbe," for the diversion of Theseus, 
Duke of Athens, and Hippolyta, his affianced 
bride. Ovid's sad tale of Pyramus and Thisbe, 
which Shakespeare burlesques, had been trans- 
lated Into several English versions, and appears 
to have been very popular in the sixteenth cen- 

64 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

tury. The youth and maid were lovers, whose 
homes were side by side. Their parents op- 
posed their union, but they found means of 
converse through a chink in the dividing wall 
between the two dwelling places. They were 
secretly to meet one night in Ninus' tomb, to 
which Thisbe repaired in the darkness, but 
while she waited she was alarmed by a lioness 
and fled into the wood, letting her mantle fall 
in her haste. This the beast tore with his 
bloody jaws. When Pyramus came and found 
the mantle in this condition, and prints of the 
lion's feet, he believed Thisbe had been slain, 
and took his own life with his sword. Thisbe, 
returning, found him dead, and, in despair, 
yielded up her life upon the point of the same 
weapon. 

The following scene is laid in a room of a 
cottage in Athens. 

Enter Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, 
Quince, and Starveling. 

Quin. Is all our company here ? 

Bot. You were best to call them generally, 
man by man, according to the scrip. 

Ouin. Here is the scroll of every man's 
name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, 

65 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

to play in our Interlude before the duke and 
duchess on his wedding-day at night. 

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what 
the play treats on; then read the names of the 
actors; and so grow to a point. 

Quin. Marry, our play is — The most 
lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of 
Pyramus and Thisby. 

Bot, A very good piece of work, I assure 
you, and a merry. — Now, good Peter Quince, 
call forth your actors by the scroll. — Masters, 
spread yourselves. 

Quin, Answer, as I call you. — Nick Bot- 
tom, the weaver. 

Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, 
and proceed. 

Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for 
Pyramus. 

Bot, What is Pyramus ? a lover, or a tyrant ? 

Quin, A lover, that kills himself most gal- 
lantly for love. 

Bot, That will ask some tears in the true 
performing of it. If I do it, let the audience 
look to their eyes; I will move storms; I will 
condole in some measure. To the rest : — yet 
my chief humour is for a tyrant: I could play 
Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make 
all split. 

The raging rocks, 
With shivering shocks, 
Shall break the locks 
Of prison gates: 

66 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

And Phibbus' car 
Shall shine from far, 
And make and mar 
The foolish Fates. 

This was lofty ! — Now, name the rest of the 
players. — This Is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; 
— a lover is more condoling. 

Quin, Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 

Flu. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin, You must take Thisby on you. 

Flu. What Is Thisby? a wandering knight? 

Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. 

Flu, Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; 
I have a beard coming. 

Quin. That's all one; you shall play It in a 
mask, and you may speak as small as you will. 

Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play 
Thisby too; I'll speak In a monstrous little 
voice; — Thisne, Thisne. — Ah, Pyramus, my 
lover dear; thy Thisby dear! and lady dear! 

Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramus ; and, 
Flute, you Thisby. 

Bot. Well, proceed. 

Quin, Robin Starveling, the tailor. 
^Star. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play 
Thisby's mother. — Tom Snout, the tinker. 

Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 

Quin. You, Pyramus's father; myself, This- 
by's father; — Snug, the joiner, you, the lion's 
part : — and, I hope, here Is a play fitted. 

67 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Snug. Have you the llon^s part written? 
pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of 
study. 

Quin, You may do it extempore, for it is 
nothing but roaring. 

Bot. Let me play the lion too: I will roar, 
that I will do any man's heart good to hear me; 
I will roar, that I will make the duke say, Let 
him roar again, let him roar again. 

Quin. An you should do it too terribly you 
would fright the duchess and the ladies, that 
they would shriek; and that were enough to 
hang us all. 

All. That would hang us every mother's 
son. 

Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should 
fright the ladies out of their wits, they would 
have no more discretion but to hang us : but I 
will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you 
as gently as any suckling dove ; I will roar you 
an 'twere any nightingale. 

Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus, 
for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper 
man, as one shall see on a summer's day; a most 
lovely, gentleman-like man; therefore you must 
needs play Pyramus. 

Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What 
beard were I best to play it in? 

Quin. Why, what you will. 

Bot. I will discharge it in either your straw- 
coloured beard, your orange-tawny beard, your 

68 



ii 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

purple-ln-grain beard, or your . . . perfect yel- 
low. 

Quin, . . . Masters, here are your parts : 
and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire 
you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet 
me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, 
by moonlight; there will we rehearse: for if we 
meet in the city, we shall be dogg'd with com- 
pany, and our devices known. In the mean- 
time I will draw a bill of properties, such as our 
play wants. I pray you, fail me not. 

Bot. We will meet; and there we may re- 
hearse more obscenely and courageously. Take 
pains; be perfect; adieu. 

Quin, At the duke's oak we meet. 

They meet again the following night by the 
light of the moon, at the appointed place, where, 
unnoted by them, TItania, queen of the fairies, 
is lying asleep. Her husband, Oberon, the 
fairy king, vexed at her refusal to yield to him 
a certain adopted child, has cast a spell upon 
her by squeezing the juice of a magical flower 
upon her slumbering eyes. The effect of the 
charm is that she must madly dote upon what- 
ever living thing she sees when she awakes. 

Bot. Are we all met? 

Quin. Pat, pat; and here is a marvellous 

69 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

convenient place for our rehearsal. This green 
plot shall be our stage, this hawthorne brake 
our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as 
we will do it before the duke. 

Bot, Peter Quince, — 

Qiiin, What say'st thou, bully Bottom? 

Bot, There are things in this comedy of 
Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. 
First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill him- 
self; which the ladies cannot abide. How an- 
swer you that? 

Snout, ByV lakin, a parlous fear. 

Star. I believe you must leave the killing 
out, when all is done. 

Bot. Not a whit: I have a device to make 
all well. Write me a prologue; and let the pro- 
logue seem to say, we will do no harm with our 
swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed: 
and for the more better assurance, tell them 
that I Pyramus am not Pyramus, but Bottom 
the weaver: this will put them out of fear. 

Oiiin. Well, we will have such a prologue; 
and it shall be written in eight and six. 

Bot. No, make it two more; let it be writ- 
ten in eight and eight. 

Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the 
lion? 

Star, I fear it, I promise you. 

Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with 
yourselves: to bring in, God shield us! a lion 
among ladies is a most dreadful thing: for there 

70 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion 
living; and we ought to look to it. 

Snout. Therefore another prologue must 
tell he is not a lion. 

Bot, Nay, you must name his name, and 
half his face must be seen through the lion's 
neck; and he himself must speak through, say- 
ing thus, or to the same defect, — " Ladies," or 
" Fair Ladies ! I would wish you, or I would 
request you, or, I would entreat you, not to fear, 
not to tremble : my life for yours. If you think 
I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. 
No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other 
men are : *' — and there, indeed, let him name 
his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the 
joiner. 

Quin, Well, it shall be so. But there is 
two hard things ; that is, to bring the moonlight 
into a chamber: for, you know, Pyramus and 
Thisby meet by moonlight. 

Snu^. Doth the moon shine that night we 
play our play? 

Bot, A calendar, a calendar! look in the 
almanack; find out moonshine, find out moon- 
shine. 

Quin, Yes, it doth shine that night. 

Bot, Why, then you may leave a casement 
of the great chamber-window, where we play, 
open; and the moon may shine in at the case- 
ment. 

Quin, Ay; or else one must come in with a 

71 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes 
to disfigure or to present the person of moon- 
shine. Then there is another thing: we must 
have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus 
and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the 
chink of a wall. 

Snug. You never can bring in a wall. — 
What say you. Bottom ? 

Bot, Some man or other must present wall: 
and let him have some plaster, or some loam, 
or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; 
or let him hold his fingers thus, and through 
that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper. 

Quin, If that may be, then all is well. 
Come, sit down, every mother's son, and re- 
hearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin: when 
you have spoken your speech, enter into that 
brake ; and so every one according to his cue. 

At this juncture comes Puck, a mischievous 
sprite and " merry wanderer of the night," who, 
unseen by them, hearkens to their rehearsal, and 
waits for an opportunity to play some trick 
upon them. When Bottom goes out. Puck fol- 
lows him, and transforms his head into that of 
a long-eared ass. Meanwhile the ridiculous, 
bungling rehearsal proceeds. 

Quin. Speak, Pyramus. — Thisby, stand 
forth. 

72 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Pyr, Thisby, the flowers of odious savours 

sweety 
Quin, Odours, odours. 

Pyr, odours savours sweet: 

So doth thy breath, my dearest Thisby 
dear. — 
But hark, a voice/ stay thou but here awhile, 
And by and by I will to thee appear. [Exit. 
Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played 
here ! [Aside. — Exit. 

This. Must I speak now ? 
Quin. Ay, marry, must you : for you must 
understand he goes but to see a noise that he 
heard, and Is to com© again. 

This. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily 

white of hue. 
Of colour like the red rose on triumphant 
brier. 
Most brisky juvenaly and eke most lovely Jew, 
As true as truest horse, that yet would never 
tire^ 
ril meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny* s tomb. 

Quin. NInus' tomb, man; why, you must not 
speak that yet: that you answer to Pyramus. 
You speak all your part at once, cues and all. — 
Pyramus enter: your cue Is past; it is, never tire. 

At this point Bottom returns, and, at sight of 
his changed and monstrous form, the others, 
alarmed, take to their heels. Puck follows, to 

73 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

torment them with fresh pranks. Bottom 
sings, to keep up his courage, and so awakens 
Titania, who, under the influence of the magical 
spell, instantly falls in love with him, lavishes 
endearments upon him, and summons fairies — 
Peasblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard- 
seed — to be his attendants. She bids them 
wait upon him and lead him to her bower, 
where Oberon, in the background and unseen, 
amuses himself by listening to the following 
discourse : 

Tita, Come, sit thee down upon this flow- 
ery bed, 

While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, 
And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 

And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 

Bot. Whereas Peasblossom? 

Peas, Ready. 

Bot, Scratch my head, Peasblossom. — 
Where's Monsieur Cobweb? 

Coh, Ready. 

Bot, Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, 
get your weapons in your hand and kill me a 
red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; 
and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. 
Do not fret yourself too much in the action, 
monsieur; and, good monsieur, have a care the 
honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have 

74 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

you over-flown with a honey-bag, signlor. — 
Where's Monsieur Mustardseed ? 

Must, Ready. 

Bot, Give me your neif, Monsieur Mus- 
tardseed. 
Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur. 

Must, What's your will ? 

Bot. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help 
Cavalero Cobweb to scratch. I must to the 
barber's monsieur; for methlnks I am marvel- 
lous hairy about the face: and I am such a ten- 
der ass, if my hair do but tickle me I must 
scratch. 

Tita, What, wilt thou hear some music, my 
sweet love? 

Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in mu- 
sic; let us have the tongs and the bones. 

Tita, Or say, sweet love, what thou de- 
sir'st to eat. 

Bot. Truly, a peck of provender; I could 
munch your good dry oats. Methlnks I have 
a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, 
sweet hay, hath no fellow. 

Tita, I have a venturous fairy that shall 
seek 
The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new 
nuts. 

Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of 
dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your 
people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep 
come upon me. 

75 



SHAKESPEARE^S 

They sleep, and Oberon, advancing, breaks 
TItanla's spell by touching her eyes with an 
herb. When she awakens, she loathes the sight 
of Bottom, whom Puck likewise relieves of en- 
chantment, so that later he wakes alone, re- 
stored to his proper form, and says : 

When my cue comes, call me, and I will an- 
swer : — my next is, Most fair Pyramus, 

Heigh-ho ! — Peter Quince ! Flute, the bel- 
lows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! 
God's my life, stolen hence, and left me asleep ! 
I have had a most rare vision. I have had a 
dream — past the wit of man to say what 
dream it was. — Man Is but an ass if he go 
about to expound this dream. Methought I 
was — there is no man can tell what. Me- 
thought I was, and methought I had, — But 
man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to 
say what methought I had. The eye of man 
hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen; 
man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to 
conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream 
was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad 
of this dream: it shall be called Bottom's 
Dream, because it hath no bottom; and I will 
sing It in the latter end of a play, before the 
duke: peradventure, to make it the more gra- 
cious, I shall sing it at her death. [Exit, 

76 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

At length the time arrives for the representa- 
tion of " Pyramus and Thisbe " before Duke 
Theseus, Hippolyta, Demetrius, Lysander, and 
other guests of the occasion. The prologue, 
as spoken by one of the clownish players, is an 
amusing example of misplaced stops or pauses, 
thus: 

// we offend, it is with our good will. 

That you should think we come not to offend 
But with good will. To show our simple skill, 

That is the true beginning of our end. 
Consider, then, we come hut in despite. 

We do not come as minding to content you. 
Our true intent is. All for your delight 

We are not here. That you should here re- 
pent you. 
The actors are at hand: and, hy their show, 
You shall know all that you are like to know. 

The other blunderers proceed with the play, 
after the manner following, to the diversion 
of the assemblage : 

Enter Lion and Moonshine. 

Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts 
do fear 
The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps 
on floor, 

77 



SHAKESPEARE ' S 

May now, perchance, both quake and tremble 
here, 

When lion rough In wildest rage doth roar. 
Then know that I, one Snug, the joiner, am 
A Hon fell, nor else no lion's dam : 
For If I should as Hon come In strife 
Into this place, 'twere pity of my life. 

The. A very gentle beast, and of a good 
conscience. 

Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, 
that e'er I saw. 

Lys. This Hon Is a very fox for his valour. 

The. True; and a goose for his discretion. 

Dem. Not so, my lord; for his valour can- 
not carry his discretion ; and the fox carries the 
goose. 

The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot 
carry his valour; for the goose carries not the 
fox. It is well: leave it to his discretion, and 
let us Hsten to the moon. 



Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon 
present; 
Myself the man V the moon do seem to be. 

The. This is the greatest error of all the 
rest: the man should be put into the lantern. 
How Is it else the man i' the moon? 

Dem. He dares not come there for the can- 
dle : for, you see, it Is already In snuff. 

78 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Hip. I am weary of this moon: would he 
would change I 

In this fashion the travesty of " Pyramus and 
Thisbe '' goes on to its close, after which " A 
Midsummer Night's Dream " concludes with a 
visit of Puck, Oberon, Titania, and the fairy 
train to the palace, where they dance and sing, 
voicing their blessings on the household and the 
union of Hippolyta with the duke. 



79 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 

Perhaps no play of Shakespeare's Is more 
read, or more popular as presented upon the 
stage, than " The Merchant of Venice.'* Its 
plot combines two highly interesting stories — 
the tale of Shylock and his bond, and that of 
Portia and the caskets — both of which are of 
Latin origin. It Is probable, however, that 
Shakespeare found the rough material for his 
masterpiece In an earlier English play referred 
to in Gosson's "School of Abuse" (i579)> 
representing " the greedlnesse of worldly 
chusers and bloody mindes of usurers." But 
the marvellous power of characterisation, fe- 
licity of expression, poetry, wit, and skilful 
development of the double plot bear the unmis- 
takable impress of the poet's matchless genius, 
and are all his own. 

The story of the usurer Shylock's crafty bond, 
with Its forfeit of " a pound of flesh, cut near- 
est the merchant's heart," and also that of the 

80 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

three caskets, from which Portia's wooers were 
required to choose, need but a brief outline 
here. 

Bassanio, being in need of money, and wish- 
ing to pay court in suitable fashion to the rich 
heiress Portia, at Belmont, Induces his friend 
Antonio, a fellow-merchant, to borrow for his 
use 3,000 ducats from Shylock. The Jew bit- 
terly hates the Christian Antonio, who publicly 
has reviled and spat upon him for lending 
money on Interest, and finds In this new transac- 
tion an opportunity for revenge. Shylock, 
however, cunningly dissembles, and, professing 
a desire to be friendly, lends the 3,000 ducats 
without interest, stipulating only, in pretended 
jest, that Antonio shall sign a bond to forfeit a 
pound of flesh in case of failure to repay the 
loan in three months. Antonio, through disas- 
ters to his ships, incurs the forfeit, and the Jew, 
provided with scales and a keen knife, demands 
from a high court of justice in Venice a judg- 
ment enabling him immediately to exact the for- 
feiture. 

Meanwhile Bassanio has at Belmont made 
fortunate choice of the leaden casket, which, by 
the terms of her father's will, entitles him to 

81 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

claim Portia as his bride, and her heart goes 
with her hand. 

When Antonio's bond becomes forfeit, and 
Portia is apprised of his desperate situation, she 
not only advances twice the sum of the loan, 
but, disguised as a young doctor of law, and with 
credentials furnished by her cousin. Dr. Bellario 
of Padua, she goes to Venice and takes his 
place, to sit in judgment upon Shylock's cause. 
After failing in her efforts to induce the Jew 
to accept payment and forego the forfeiture, she 
bids him cut his pound of flesh, but warns him 
that if he shed a drop of Christian blood his 
life becomes forfeit, under the Venetian law. 

The baffled usurer then demands his money, 
but Portia rules that, as he has conspired 
against a Christian, the law demands confisca- 
tion of all his wealth; one-half to the State, the 
other to Antonio, and that Shylock's very life 
is at the mercy of the duke. 

Shylock's life is spared, on condition that he 
become a Christian. And, on the intercession 
of the noble Antonio, he is allowed to retain 
one-half his wealth, provided he shall will it 
to his daughter Jessica, who has eloped with 
and married a Christian. 

82 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Portia exhibits rare ability and grace of dic- 
tion during the trial, which is one of the most 
thrilling and absorbing scenes ever represented 
on the stage. 

An entertaining character in the play is 
Gratiano, a friend of Bassanio and Antonio, 
whose lively wit serves as a foil to Antonio's 
sadness. The three thus converse: 

Ant. I hold the world but as the world, 
Gratiano — 
A stage, where every man must play a part, 
And mine a sad one. 

Gra, Let me play the fool : 
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come ; 
And let my liver rather heat with wine 
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
Why should a man, whose blood Is warm within, 
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? 
Sleep when he wakes? and creep Into the 

jaundice 
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, — 
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks, — 
There are a sort of men whose visages 
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, 
And do a wilful stillness entertain. 
With purpose to be dress'd In an opinion 
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; 
As who should say, / am Sir Oracle. 
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark! 

83 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

O, my Antonio, I do know of these, 
That therefore only are reputed wise 
For saying nothing; . . . 
But fish not, with this melancholy bait, 
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion. — 

• ••••• 

Gra. . . . silence Is only commendable 
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not ven- 
dible. [Exit Gra. 

Jnt, Is that anything now? 

Bass, Gratiano speaks an Infinite deal of 
nothing, more than any man In all Venice. His 
reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two 
bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you 
find them; and, when you have them, they are 
not worth the search. 

In Portia's home at Belmont she discusses 
with her maid Nerlssa the merits of her suitors. 

Ner. Your father was ever virtuous; and 
holy men, at their death, have good inspira- 
tions; therefore, the lottery that he hath de- 
vised In these three chests, of gold, silver, and 
lead, — whereof who chooses his meaning 
chooses you, — will, no doubt, never be chosen 
by any rightly but one who you shall rightly 
love. But what warmth Is there in your affec- 
tion towards any of these princely suitors that 
are already come ? 

Por. 1 pray thee, over-name them; and as 
thou namest them, I will describe them; and 

84 



WIT AND HUMOUR 



according to my description, level at my affec- 
tion. 

Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 

Por. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth 
nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it 
a great appropriation to his own good parts 
that he can shoe him himself. . . . 

Ner, Then is there the County Palatine. 

Por, He doth nothing but frown; as who 
should say. An if you will not have me, choose: 
he hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he 
will prove the weeping philosopher when he 
grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness 
in his youth. I had rather be married to a 
death's head with a bone in his mouth than to 
either of these. God defend me from these 
two! 

Ner, How say you by the French lord. 
Monsieur Le Bon? 

Por. God made him, and therefore let him 
pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to 
be a mocker: but, he! why, he hath a horse 
better than the Neapohtan's; a better bad habit 
of frowning than the Count Palatine : he is 
every man and no man; if a throstle sing he falls 
straight a-capering; he will fence with his own 
shadow; if I should marry him I should marry 
twenty husbands. If he would despise me I 
would forgive him; for if he love me to mad- 
ness I shall never requite him. 

85 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Ner, What say you then to Falconbridge, 
the young baron of England? 

Por, You know I say nothing to him; for 
he understands not me, nor I him; he hath 
neither Latin, French, nor Italian; and you will 
come Into the court and swear that I have a 
poor pennyworth In the English. He Is a 
proper man's picture; but, alas! who can con- 
verse with a dumb show? How oddly he is 
suited ! I think, he bought his doublet in Italy, 
his round hose In France, his bonnet in Ger- 
many, and his behaviour everywhere. 

Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, 
his neighbour? 

Por, That he hath a neighbourly charity in 
him; for he borrowed a box of the ear of the 
Englishman, and swore he would pay him again 
when he was able: I think the Frenchman 
became his surety, and sealed under for 
another. 

Ner. How like you the young German, the 
Duke of Saxony's nephew? 

Por, Very vilely In the morning when he is 
sober; and most vilely in the afternoon when 
he is drunk; when he Is best he Is a little worse 
than a man; and when he Is worst, he is little 
better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever 
fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without 
him. 

Ner. If he should offer to choose, and 

S6 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

choose the right casket, you should refuse to 
perform your father's will if you should refuse 
to accept him. 

Por, Therefore, for fear of the worst, I 
pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on 
the contrary casket: for, if the devil be within 
and that temptation without, I know he will 
choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I 
will be married to a sponge. 

Ner, You need not fear, lady, the having 
any of these lords; they have acquainted me 
with their determinations; which is indeed, to 
return to their home, and to trouble you with 
no more suit, unless you may be won by some 
other sort than your father's imposition, de- 
pending on the caskets. 

Por, If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will 
die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by 
the manner of my father's will. I am glad this 
parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is 
not one among them but I dote on his very ab- 
sence, and I pray God grant them a fair de- 
parture. 

A curious, clownish character in the play is 
Launcelot Gobbo, servant to Shylock. He 
thus soliloquises in a street scene. 

Certainly my conscience will serve me to run 
from this Jew, my master. The fiend is at 
mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, 

87 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Gohbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot, or 
good Gobbo, or good Launcelot Gobbo, use 
your legs, take the start, run away. My con- 
science says, — No; take heed, honest Launce- 
lot; take heed, honest Gobbo: or as aforesaid, 
honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run, scorn run- 
ning with thy heels. Well, the most cour- 
ageous fiend bids me pack: Via! says the fiend; 
away! says the fiend, /or the heavens; rouse up 
a brave mind^ says the fiend, and run. Well, 
my conscience, hanging about the neck of my 
heart, says very wisely to me, — My honest 
friend^ Launcelot, being an honest man's son, or 
rather an honest woman's son; — for indeed, 
my father did something smark, something 
grow to, he had a kind of taste; — well, my 
conscience says, Launcelot, budge not. Budge, 
says the fiend. Budge not, says my conscience. 
Conscience, say I, you counsel well; fiend, say 
I, you counsel well: to be ruled by my con- 
science, I should stay with the Jew, my master, 
who (God bless the mark!) is a kind of devil; 
and, to run away from the Jew, I should be 
ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, 
is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the 
very devil incarnation: and, in my conscience, 
my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, 
to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. 
The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I 
will run, fiend; my heels are at your command- 
ment; I will run. 

88 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Here follows a scrap of dialogue between 
Launcelot and Jessica, Shylock's daughter : 

Jes, I shall be saved by my husband; he 
hath made me a Christian. 

Laun, Truly, the more to blame he: we 
were Christians enow before; e'en as many as 
could well live, one by another. This making 
of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we 
grow all to be pork eaters we shall not shortly 
have a rasher on the coals for money. 

The vivacious wit of Portia is well exempli- 
fied in these satirical remarks, addressed to 
Nerissa : 

I'll hold thee any wager. 
When we are both accouter'd like young men, 
I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 
And wear my dagger with the braver grace. 
And speak, between the change of man and boy. 
With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps 
Into a manly stride; and speak of frays, 
Like a fine bragging youth : and tell quaint lies. 
How honourable ladies sought my love. 
Which I denying, they fell sick and died; 
I could not do withal: then I'll repent. 
And wish, for all that, that I had not klll'd 

them: 
And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, 

89 



SHAKESPEARE'S . 

That men shall swear I have discontinued 

school 
Above a twelvemonth. — I have within my 

mind 
A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks 
Which I will practise. 



90 



SIR JOHN FALSTAFF 

Sir John Falstaff is the most entertaining of 
all Shakespeare's characters, the one on which 
he most lavished the boundless resources of his 
wit. No role received so much attention from 
the dramatist. The fat knight figures promi- 
nently in the first and second parts of " King 
Henry IV," has the chief role in " The Merry 
Wives of Windsor," and his death is de- 
scribed in " Henry V." Thus he appears, or 
is given space, in no less than four plays, a 
distinction not enjoyed by any other of Shake- 
speare's personages, unless the followers of 
Falstaff be counted. The playwright evidently 
was conscious of the superior merit of this re- 
markable characterisation, for he makes Fal- 
staff say: 

The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, 
man, is not able to invent anything that tends 
to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented 
on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the 
cause that wit is in other men. 

91 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

It may be said with confidence that no other 
character, in all literature, is comparable with 
Falstaff in nimbleness, copiousness, and bril- 
liancy of wit. His jests at times are gross, but 
usually of a highly Intellectual quality. They 
flow constantly and with the utmost ease from 
his tireless invention; gay and sparkling, un- 
tainted by malice, and leaving no sting. And 
Sir John's wit is joined to strong common sense 
and a keenness of Insight that are distinguishing 
characteristics of this Inimitable role. 

It was because of Falstaff that Dr. Samuel 
Johnson remarked that none of Shakespeare's 
plays was more read than the first and second 
parts of " King Henry IV," and that " perhaps 
no author has ever In two plays afforded so 
much delight." 

Falstaff seems to have been an entirely orig- 
inal creation of the poet's genius, not an his- 
toric character. Shakespeare first gave him the 
name of " Sir John Oldcastle," which caused 
some offense to Protestants, because there was 
a real Oldcastle, better known as Lord Cobham, 
a very serious personage, who died a martyr 
to their faith. Hence the change to Falstaff, 
which left obscure Prince Henry's reference to 

92 



W I T AND HUMOU R 

the jovial knight as '* my old lad of the castle," 
a play upon the original name. 

Falstaff should never be confounded with Sir 
John Fastolfe, a real personage, who in the 
play of " King Henry VI " Is denounced for 
cowardly conduct on the field of battle, stripped 
of the garter, and banished from the realm. 

Falstaff's reference to his age as " some fifty, 
or, by our lady, Inclining to threescore," is to 
be taken humourously. It must have been at 
least seventy years, for It appears from the sec- 
ond part of " King Henry IV " that he was 
page to the Duke of Norfolk when Justice 
Shallow was ** of Clement's Inn," and that he 
and Shallow spent " a merry night " In Saint 
George's fields together before Shallow entered 
the Inns of court, which was " fifty-five years 
ago." This conclusion of advanced age ac- 
cords well with Prince Henry's reference to 
him as " that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, 
. . . that vanity In years." 

Falstaff's chief characteristic is his constant 
gaiety. There Is ever a jest upon his lips, even 
under circumstances the most adverse to merri- 
ment. His good humour and unfailing wit win 
him indulgence for his vices. Although he re- 

93 



S H A KESPEARE'S 

veals himself as a conscienceless liar, rogue, 
glutton, drunkard, and robber, whose sole aim 
in life seems to be the gratification of his appe- 
tites and baser passions, he stealthily creeps into 
our Indulgence. We must despise his charac- 
ter, and yet we grieve for his loss when, " his 
heart fracted," he disappears from the pages 
made enchanting by his rare personality. A 
man more full of faults Is seldom pictured, but 
had Falstaff been designed to win charity for 
sinners the aim scarcely could have been more 
successfully accomplished. When the ponder- 
ous knight finally vanishes from the scene we 
feel, like Prince Henry when Falstaff was feign- 
ing death on the battlefield, that we could have 
" better spared a better man." 

The " cowardice " of Falstaff is made in the 
plays in which he figures occasion for much fun 
at his expense. But It seems to be of a calcu- 
lating sort, due to a disregard of " honour," 
rather than to physical fear. It is to be re- 
membered that he is a knight in a military age, 
when knighthood is the reward of conspicuous 
valour, and Is In receipt of a pension from the 
crown when first he comes upon the stage. On 
several occasions he exhibits remarkable coolness 

94 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

and courage. When the Sheriff of London 
comes to arrest him for highway robbery, a 
hanging offence in those days, Falstaff continues 
to make merry, and presently goes to sleep be- 
hind the arras, where he conceals himself by 
direction of the prince. On this occasion it 
required remarkable intrepidity in the knight 
to jest in this fashion with the prince: 

If you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, let 
him enter: if I become not a cart as well as 
another man, a plague on my bringing-upl I 
hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter 
as another. 

Such was the airy response to the prince's 
bantering declaration that Falstaff was '' a natu- 
ral coward, without Instinct.'* 

At another time he fights the constables who 
seek to take him into custody for debt. Even 
at Gad's Hill he is the last of the robbers to 
run away, and does not flee until he is left to 
cope with two assailants. On the bloody field 
of Shrewsbury he leads his " ragamuffins " 
where they are " peppered," so that out of one 
hundred and fifty not three remain alive, ac- 
cording to his own meditation. 

95 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

His feigning death on the same battlefield 
was a deliberate although ignoble stratagem, not 
an exhibition of fright. *' It was a time to 
counterfeit/' says Falstaff. 

His reputation seems to have been that of 
a good fighter. Dame Quickly says it may 
cost some of the peace ofl^cers their lives to take 
him; that "he will stab," "will foin (thrust), 
like any devil." And Justice Shallow says Fal- 
staff when but a lad " broke Schoggan's head." 
Colevllle of the Dale, a valiant knight, sur- 
renders to him at Shrewsbury in terms implying 
that Falstaff is a man of military reputation: 

I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that 
thought yield me. 

Prince Henry, in a time of peril to the 
throne, obtains for Sir John a military com- 
mand. And when the dissolute knight is ca- 
rousing, " a dozen captains " " stand at door," 
asking for him, thus indicating that his leader- 
ship is sought. 

The Earl of Westmoreland addresses Fal- 
staff familiarly, as a man of consequence, tell- 
ing him it is time they joined the King; that 
" the King looks for us all." And in an im- 

96 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

portant scene the King's attendants are Prince 
Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, the Earl of 
Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blount, and Sir John 
Falstaff. 

So It would appear, from such circumstances 
and Incidents, that Falstaff Is not a constitutional 
coward, governed by fear, but rather a man 
who, as he says himself, fights no longer than 
he sees reason for fighting. 

It must be admitted, on the other hand, that 
there Is much In the plays to support the gen- 
eral view of Falstaff as a poltroon. At Gad's 
Hill he roars for mercy as he runs from the 
Prince and Polns, and afterwards they twit him 
for his " cowardice.'* In " The Merry Wives " 
he hides himself in a buck-basket, under soiled 
linen, rather than face discovery and danger, 
and in a like situation of peril he is disguised 
as an old woman and soundly beaten with a 
cudgel while he seeks safety In flight. And the 
opinion of Mistresses Ford and Page as to his 
lack of courage Is but too plainly indicated in 
the text. 

Yet, after all is said, It remains true that Fal- 
staff seems never to lose his wits, but, on the 
contrary, appears always resourceful, cool, and 

97 



SHAKESPEA RE ' S 

self-possessed, ready to take advantage of every 
favourable opportunity. He confronts adver- 
sity with a smile, and turns misfortune into a 
jest. 

That Shakespeare meant Falstaff to be more 
or less contradictory may be inferred from the 
remark of Prince Henry that *' he is the stran- 
gest fellow." Maurice Morgann aptly sums 
up the incongruities of this remarkable charac- 
ter in these words : 

" At once young and old, dupe and wit, harm- 
less and wicked, with natural courage but no 
honour; knave without malice, liar without de- 
ceit, knight, gentleman, and soldier without dig- 
nity or decency." 

Scarcely less peculiar and unique than Falstaff 
himself are his retainers — Bardolph, Nym, 
and Pistol. All are rascals, but each has well- 
marked individuality. 

In personal appearance Bardolph is distin- 
guished by a fiery-red nose, which Is the subject 
of many of Falstaff's witticisms. On the field 
of battle (King Henry V, act 3, scene 2), 
Bardolph is the only one of the precious trio 
who does not show the white feather. When 
discarded by Falstaff he turns tapster, Pistol 

98 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

saying of him, in characteristic phrase, " His 
mind is not heroic." The last word of Bar- 
dolph is that he is " like to be executed for 
robbing a church 'V (King Henry V, act 3, 
scene 6). 

Pistol is " a sneaking bully," a bombastic, 
swaggering braggart, fond of high-sounding, 
classical phrases borrowed from plays current 
at the time, and most ludicrously bungled in his 
vain speech. He is best pictured in the words 
of the page in " King Henry V " : " He hath a 
kilHng tongue and a quiet sword." In a laugh- 
able scene in the same play. Pistol is compelled 
to " eat the leek." 

By contrast with Pistol, Corporal Nym is very 
quiet and of few words, but both at times dis- 
play wit. Nym is a great coward when there 
is any real danger. He is a most fantastic and 
bombastic knave, pressing the word " humour " 
into service on all possible occasions — a draw- 
ling, affected rogue. 

These three worthies are cut-purses and pick- 
pockets. And Falstaff himself (in " King 
Henry IV") speaks of "purse-taking" (rob- 
bery) as his " vocation." Both Falstaff and his 
followers deserved hanging, under the severe 

99 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

criminal laws of the period, which made rob- 
bery and larceny capital offences. Falstaff had 
even sunk so low as to share in the proceeds of 
a petty theft. ^' Didst thou not share: hadst 
thou not fifteen pence? " asks Pistol, when Fal- 
staff reminds him of Mistress Bridget*s loss of 
the handle of her fan. 

Closely associated with Falstaff, as a boon 
companion, Is the dissolute but keen-witted 
young Prince of Wales, whom he familiarly 
calls "Hal" (afterwards King Henry V). 
The first scene In which they appear Is " an 
apartment In a tavern,*' In the first act of King 
Henry IV, and they banter each other in this 
fashion : 

Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day Is It, lad? 

P. Hen, Thou art so fat-witted, with drink- 
ing of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after sup- 
per, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that 
thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which 
thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast 
thou to do with the time of the day? . . . 

Fal. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; 
for we that take purses go by the moon and the 
seven stars, and not by Phoebus, — he, that 
wandering knight so fair. And, I pr'ythee, 
sweet wag, when thou art king, — as, God save 

100 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

thy grace (majesty, I should say; for grace thou 
wilt have none), — 

P, Hen. What, none? 

Fal, No, by my troth; not so much as will 
serve to be prologue to an egg and butter. 

P, Hen, Well, how then? come, roundly, 
roundly. 

Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou 
art king, let not us that are squires of the night's 
body be called thieves of the day's beauty; let 
us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, 
minions of the moon; and let men say we be 
men of good government, being governed, as 
the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the 
moon, under whose countenance we steal. 

P. Hen. Thou sayest well, and it holds well 
too; for the fortune of us that are the moon's 
men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being gov- 
erned, as the sea is, by the moon. As, for 
proof, now: a purse of gold most resolutely 
snatched on Monday night, and most disso- 
lutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with 
swearing lay by, and spent with crying bring in; 
now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, 
and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of 
the gallows. 

They proceed to jest about tavern reck- 
onings : 

P. Hen. Did I ever call thee to pay thy 
part? 

lOI 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

FaL No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast 
paid all there. 

P. Hen. Yea, and elsewhere, sofar as my 
coin would stretch; and where it would not, I 
have used my credit. ^ 

FaL Yea, and so used it that, were it not 
here apparent that thou art heir-apparent, — 
but, I pr'ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gal- 
lows standing in England when thou art king? 
and resolution thus fobbed as it is with the rusty 
curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, 
when thou art king, hang a thief. 

P. Hen. No ; thou shalt. 

Fal. Shall I ? O rare ! By the Lord, Fll 
be a brave judge. 

P. Hen. Thou judgest false already: I 
mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the 
thieves, and so become a rare hangman. 

Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it 
jumps with my humour as well as waiting in the 
court, I can tell you. 

P. Hen. For obtaining of suits? 

Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof 
the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, 
I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugged bear. 

P. Hen. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute. 

Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire 
bag-pipe. 

P. Hen. What sayest thou to a hare, or the 
melancholy of Moor-ditch? 

102 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Fal, Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, 
and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascal- 
lest, — sweet young prince, — but, Hal, I 
pr'ythee, trouble me no more with vanity. I 
would to God thou and I knew where a com- 
modity of good names were to be bought. An 
old lord of the council rated me the other day 
in the street about you, sir, — but I marked him 
not ; and yet he talked very wisely, — but I re- 
garded him not; and yet he talked wisely, and 
in the street too. 

P, Hen, Thou didst well; for wisdom cries 
out in the streets, and no man regards it. 

Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and 
art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast 
done much harm upon me, Hal, — God forgive 
thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew 
nothing; and now am I, If a man should speak 
truly, little better than one of the wicked. 1 
must give over this life, and I will give it over; 
by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain : Til be 
damned for never a king's son In Christendom. 

P. Hen. Where shall we take a purse to- 
morrow. Jack? 

Fal. Where thou wilt, lad; Til make one; 
an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me. 

P. Hen. I see a good amendment of life In 
thee, — from praying to purse-taking. 

Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal; 'tis 
no sin for a man to labour In his vocation. — 

103 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Poins, a highwayman, comes in, and familiar 
greetings ensue. He tells them of a robbery 
he has planned for four o'clock on the follow- 
ing morning at Gad's Hill, of certain pilgrims 
and traders, and asks them to take part in it. 
Falstaff quickly assents, but the prince demurs. 
Falstaff then takes his leave, the prince saying: 

Farewell, thou latter spring! Farewell, All- 
hallown summer! 

Poins then proposes to the prince, as a 
" jest," that Falstaff, Bardolph, one Peto, and 
one Gadshill shall rob the men he has described, 
and that then the Prince and he (Poins) shall 
rob Falstaff and his companions. The prince 
assents. It is arranged that the two shall ap- 
point a place of meeting with Falstaff and the 
others, but fail to appear, when Falstaff and his 
fellow-rogues shall venture upon the exploit 
themselves, after which the prince and Poins, 
disguised in masks and suits of buckram, shall 
set upon them and rob them of their booty. 

*' The virtue of the jest," Poins explains, will 
be the lies that Falstaff will afterwards tell when 
they meet him at supper, and in their " reproof." 

Poins takes his leave, and the prince, in a 

104 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

soliloquy, likens himself to the sun behind a 
cloud, and discloses his intention eventually to 
throw off his loose behaviour and redeem him- 
self in the eyes of men. 

The robbery takes place as planned by Poins, 
the prince first secretly removing Falstaff's 
horse, so the corpulent knight is compelled to 
walk. Falstaff protests to his fellows that 
" eight yards of uneven ground is threescore 
and ten miles a-foot " with him. As they are 
in the act of dividing their booty, the prince and 
Poins, disguised, set upon them, demanding the 
money. Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill immedi- 
ately run away, and Falstaff also, after a blow 
or two, leaving the plunder. The prince says 
to Poins: 

Falstaff sweats to death, and lards the lean 
earth as he walks along. Were it not for 
laughing, I should pity him. 

Poins, How the rogue roared ! 

They all meet again at the Boar's Head tav- 
ern in Eastcheap, London. The prince and 
Poins are already there when Falstaff and the 
other robbers enter, and the following colloquy 
ensues : 

105 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Poins, Welcome, Jack: where hast thou 
been? 

FaL A plague of all cowards, I say, and a 
vengeance too ! marry, and amen ! — Give me a 
cup of sack, boy. — Ere I lead this life long, I'll 
sew nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them 
too. A plague of all cowards ! — Give me a 
cup of sack, rogue. — Is there no virtue extant? 

[^He drinks, 

P, Hen. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a 
dish of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan, that 
melted at the sweet tale of the sun! if thou 
didst, then behold that compound. 

FaL You rogue, here's lime in this sack too : 
there is nothing but roguery to be found in vil- 
lainous man : yet a coward is worse than a cup 
of sack with lime in it, — a villainous coward. — 
Go thy ways, old Jack, die when thou wilt: if 
manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon 
the face of the earth, then am I a shotten her- 
ring. There live not three good men unhanged 
in England; and one of them is fat, and grows 
old : God help the while ! a bad world, I say. I 
would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or 
anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still. 

P. Hen, How now, woolsack ! what mutter 
you? 

Fal, A king's son! If I do not beat thee 
out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and 
drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of 

io6 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face 
more. You Prince of Wales ! 

• ••••• 

FaL Are you not a coward ? answer me to 
that: — and Poins there? 

Poins, Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call 
me coward, I'll stab thee. 

FaL I call thee coward! I'll see thee 
damned ere I call thee coward : but I would give 
a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou 
canst. You are straight enough in the shoul- 
ders, — you care not who sees your back: call 
you that backing of your friends? A plague 
upon such backing! give me them that will face 
me. — Give me a cup of sack: — I am a rogue 
if I drunk to-day. 

P. Hen. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped 
since thou drunkest last. 

FaL All's one for that. A plague of all 
cowards, still say I. [^He drinks, 

P. Hen. What's the matter? 

FaL What's the matter! there be four of 
us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day 
morning. 

P. Hen. Where is it. Jack? where is it? 

FaL Where Is it! taken from us it is: a 
hundred upon poor four of us. 

P. Hen. What, a hundred, man? 

FaL I am a rogue, if I were not at half- 
sword with a dozen of them two hours to- 

107 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

gether. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight 
times thrust through the doublet, four through 
the hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; 
my sword hacked like a hand-saw, — ecce sig- 
numl I never dealt better since I was a man: 
all would not do. A plague of all cowards ! — 
Let them speak: If they speak more or less than 
truth, they are villains, and the sons of dark- 
ness. 

P. Hen. Speak, sirs; how was It? 

Gads. We four set upon some dozen, — 

>Fal, Sixteen at least, my lord. 

Gads. And bound them. 

Peto. No, no, they were not bound. 

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every 
man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. 

Gads. As we were sharing, some six or 
seven fresh men set upon us, — 

Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come 
in the other. 

P. Hen. What, fought ye with them all? 

Fal. All! I know not what ye call all; but 
If I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch 
of radish : If there were not two or three and 
fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two- 
legged creature. 

P. Hen. Pray God, you have not murdered 
some of them. 

FaL Nay, that's past praying for: I have 
peppered two of them; two I am sure I have 

io8 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

paid, — two rogues in buckram suits. I tell 
thee what, Hal, — if I tell thee a He, spit In my 
face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old 
ward; — here I lay, and thus I bore my point. 
Four rogues In buckram let drive at me, — 

P. Hen. What, four? thou saidst but two 
even now. 

FaL Four, Hal ; I told thee four. 

Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. 

FaL These four came all a-front, and 
mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado 
but took all their seven points in my target, 
thus. 

P. Hen, Seven? why, there were but four 
even now in buckram. 

Poins, Ay, four In buckram suits. 

FaL Seven, by these hilts, or I am a vil- 
lain else. 

P. Hen, Pr^ythee, let him alone; we shall 
have more anon. 

FaL Dost thou hear me, Hal? 

P. Hen. Ay, and mark thee too. Jack. 

FaL Do so, for It Is worth the listening to. 
These nine In buckram that I told thee of, — 

P. Hen, So, two more already. 

FaL Their points being broken, — 

Poins. Down fell their hose. 

FaL Began to give me ground: but I fol- 
lowed me close, came In foot and hand; and 
with a thought seven of the eleven I paid. 

109 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

P. Hen. O monstrous I eleven buckram men 
grown out of two ! 

Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three 
misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at 
my back and let drive at me ; — for it was so 
dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. 

P. Hen. These lies are like the father that 
begets them, — gross as a mountain, open, pal- 
pable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou nott- 
pated fool, thou . . . obscene, greasy tallow- 
keech, — 

Fal. What, art thou mad ? art thou mad ? is 
not the truth the truth ? 

P. Hen. Why, how couldst thou know 
these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark 
thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us 
your reason: what sayest thou to this? 

Poins. Come, your reason. Jack, — your 
reason. 

Fal. What, upon compulsion? No; were 
I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, 
I would not tell you on compulsion. Give 
you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were 
as plenty as blackberries I would give no man 
a reason upon compulsion, I. 

P. Hen. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; 
this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this 
horse back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh, — 

Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, 
you dried neat's tongue, . . . you stock-iish, — ■ 

no 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

O for breath to utter what is like thee ! — you 
tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile 
standing-tuck, — 

P, Hen, Well, breathe awhile, and then to 
it again: and when thou hast tired thyself in 
base comparisons, hear me speak but this. 

Poins, Mark, Jack. 

P. Hen. We two saw you four set on four; 
you bound them, and were masters of their 
wealth. — Mark now, how a plain tale shall put 
you down. — Then did we two set on you four; 
and, with a word, out-faced you from your 
prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you 
here in the house : — and, Falstaff, you carried 
your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dex- 
terity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and 
roared, as ever I heard a bull-calf. What a 
slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast 
done, and then say it was in fight ! What trick, 
what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now 
find out to hide thee from this open and ap- 
parent shame? 

Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick 
hast thou now? 

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he 
that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters : was 
it for me to kill the heir-apparent? Should I 
turn upon the true prince? Why, thou know- 
est I am as valiant as Hercules : but beware in- 
stinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. 

Ill 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on 
instinct. I shall think the better of myself and 
thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and 
thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, 
I am glad you have the money. — Hostess, clap 
to the doors [to Hostess within^ : — watch to- 
night, pray to-morrow. — Gallants, lads, boys, 
hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship 
come to you! What, shall we be merry? 
Shall we have a play extempore? 

P. Hen, Content; — and the argument 
shall be thy running away. 

FaL Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou 
lovest me ! 



Enter Hostess. 

Host, O Jesu, my lord the prince, — 

P. Hen. How now, my lady the hostess 1 — • 
What sayest thou to me? 

Host. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman 
of the court at door would speak with you : he 
says he comes from your father. 

P, Hen. Give him as much as will make 
him a royal man, and send him back again to 
my mother. 

Fal. What manner of man is he? 

Host. An old man. 

Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at 
midnight? — Shall I give him his answer? 

112 



WIT AND H U M O U R 

P. Hen, Pr'ythee, do, Jack. 

Fal, Faith, and I'll send him packing. 

[Exit. 

P. Hen, Now, sirs : — byV lady, you 
fought fair; — so did you, Peto; — so did 
you, Bardolph : you are lions too, you ran away 
upon instinct, you will not touch the true prince; 
no, — fie ! 

Bard. Faith, I ran when I saw others run. 

P, Hen, Tell me now in earnest, how came 
Falstaff's sword so hacked? 

Peto. Why, he hacked it with his dagger; 
and said he would swear truth out of Eng- 
land, but he would make you believe it was 
done in fight; and persuaded us to do the like. 

Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with 
spear-grass to make them bleed; and then to 
beslubber our garments with it, and swear it was 
the blood of true men. I did that I did not 
this seven year before, — I blushed to hear his 
monstrous devices. 

P. Hen, O villain, thou stolest a cup of 
sack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with 
the manner, and ever since thou hast blushed 
extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy 
side, and yet thou rannest away: what instinct 
hadst thou for it? 

Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors? 
do you behold these exhalations? 

P, Hen, I do. 

113 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Bard, What think you they portend? 
P. Hen. Hot livers and cold purses. 
Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken. 
P. Hen. No, if rightly taken, halter. — 
Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. 

Re-enter Falstaff. 

How now, my sweet creature of bombast! 
How long is't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine 
own knee? 

FaL My own knee ! when I was about thy 
years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the 
waist; I could have crept into any alderman's 
thumb-ring: a plague of sighing and grief! it 
blows a man up like a bladder. — There's vil- 
lainous news abroad: here was Sir John Bracy 
from your father; you must to the court in the 
morning. 

Falstaff proceeds to relate that the Earl of 
Northumberland, Henry Percy, his son (Hot- 
spur), with the Earl of Douglas, Owen Glen- 
dower and others, had taken the field against 
King Henry. Falstaff continues: 

But tell me, Hal, art thou not horribly 
afeard? thou being heir-apparent, could the 
world pick thee out three such enemies again 
as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that 

114 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly 
afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it? 

P. Hen, Not a whit, i' faith; I lack some of 
thy instinct. 

FaL Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to- 
morrow when thou comest to thy father: if 
thou love me, practise an answer. 

P. Hen, Do thou stand for my father! and 
examine me upon the particulars of my life. 

Fal, Shall I ? content : — this chair shall be 
my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this 
cushion my crown. 

P. Hen. Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, 
thy golden scepter for a leaden dagger, and thy 
precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown ! 

Fal, Well, an the fire of grace be not quite 
out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. — Give 
me a cup of sack to make mine eyes look red, 
that it may be thought I have wept; for I must 
speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cam- 
byses* vein. 

P, Hen, Well, here Is my leg. 

Fal. And here Is my speech. — Stand aside, 
nobility. 

Host, O Jesu, this is excellent sport, i' 
faith 1 

Fal, Weep not, sweet queen; for trickling 
tears are vain. 

Host. O, the father, how he holds his 
countenance ! 

115 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

FaL For God's sake, lords, convey my 
tristful queen; 
For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes. 

Host, O Jesu, he doth it as like one of 
these harlotry players as ever I see ! 

Fal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good 
tickle-brain. — Harry, I do not only marvel 
where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou 
art accompanied: for though the camomile, the 
more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet 
youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. 
That thou art my son, I have partly thy 
mother's word, partly my own opinion; but 
chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye, and a 
foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth 
warrant me. If, then, thou be son to me, here 
lies the point; — why, being son to me, art 
thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of 
heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries? a 
question not to be asked. Shall the son of 
England prove a thief, and take purses? a 
question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, 
which thou hast often heard of, and it is known 
to many in our land by the name of pitch: 
this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth 
defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, 
Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, 
but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; 
not in words only, but in woes also : — and 
yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often 

Ii6 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

noted in thy company, but I know not his 
name. 

P. Hen, What manner of man, an it like 
your majesty. 

Fal, A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a 
corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, 
and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his 
age some fifty, or, by'r lady, inclining to three- 
score; and now I remember me, his name is 
Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, 
he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his 
looks. If, then, the tree may be known by the 
fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, perempto- 
rily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: 
him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me 
now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast 
thou been this month ? 

P. Hen, Dost thou speak like a king? Do 
thou stand for me, and I'll play my father. 

Fal. Depose me? if thou dost it half so 
gravely, so majestically, both in word and mat- 
ter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker 
or a poulter's hare. 

P, Hen, Well, here I am set. 

Fal, And here I stand : — judge, my mas- 
ters. 

P, Hen. Now, Harry, whence come you? 

Fal, My noble lord, from Eastcheap. 

P. Hen, The complaints I hear of thee are 
grievous. 

117 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

FaL 'Sblood, my lord, they are false : — 
nay, I'll tickle ye for a young prince, i' faith. 

P, Hen. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? 
henceforth ne'er look on me. Thou art vio- 
lently carried away from grace : there Is a devil 
haunts thee, In the likeness of a fat old man, — 
a tun of man Is thy companion. Why dost thou 
converse with that trunk of humours, that bolt- 
ing-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of 
dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that 
stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Man- 
nlngtree ox, with the pudding in his belly, that 
reverend vice, that gray iniquity, that father 
ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he 
good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein 
neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat 
it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein 
crafty, but in villainy? wherein villainous, but 
in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing? 

FaL I would your grace would take me 
with you : whom means your grace ? 

P. Hen, That villainous abominable mis- 
leader of youth, Falstaff, that old white- 
bearded Satan. 

Fal, My lord, the man I know. 

P, Hen. I know thou dost. 

Fal. But to say I know more harm in him 
than in myself, were to say more than I know. 
That he is old, — the more the pity, — his 
white hairs do witness it. ... If sack and 

ii8 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! If to 
be old and merry be a sin, then many an old 
host that I know is damned: if to be fat be to be 
hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. 
No, my good lord; banish Peto, banish Bar- 
dolph, banish Poins: but, for sweet Jack Fal- 
staff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, 
valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more 
valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish 
not him thy Harry's company : — banish plump 
Jack, and banish all the world. 

At this point a knocking is heard, and Bar- 
dolph runs in to say that the Sheriff, " with a 
most monstrous watch," is at the door; to search 
the house. Falstaff exclaims, with remarkable 
coolness, in view of the fact that he is in immi- 
nent danger of arrest for a felony : 

Out, you rogue I — play out the play : I have 
much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff. 

With like nonchalance, Falstaff exchanges 
jests with the prince, saying: 

... if you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, 
let him enter: if I become not a cart as well as 
another man, a plague on my bringing up! I 
hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter 
as another. 

119 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

By direction of the prince, Falstaff hides be- 
hind the arras (tapestry hangings). The Sher- 
iff is then admitted, and the prince pledges his 
word that he will send Falstaff on the follow- 
ing day to answer to the charge of robbery, with 
which assurance the Sheriff retires. 

P. Hen, This oily rascal is known as well 
as Paul's. Go, call him forth. 

Poins, Falstaff ! — fast asleep behind the 
arras, and snorting like a horse. 

P, Hen, Hark, how hard he fetches breath. 
Search his pockets. [PoiNS searches,^ What 
hast thou found? 

Poins, Nothing but papers, my lord. 

P, Hen, Let's see what they be : read them. 

Poins, [Reads. 1 Item, A capon, 2s. 2d. 
Item, Sauce, . . . . os. 4d. 

Item, Sack, two gallons, . . 5s. 8d. 

Item, Anchovies and sack after supper, 2S. 6d. 
Item, Bread, . . . . os. ojd. 

P, Hen, O monstrous! but one halfpenny- 
worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! 
— What there is else, keep close; we'll read it 
at more advantage : there let him sleep till day. 
I'll to the court in the morning. We must 
all to the wars, and thy place shall be hon- 
ourable. I'll procure this fat rogue a charge 
of foot; and I know his death will be a march 
of twelve-score. The money shall be paid 

120 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

back again with advantage. Be with me be- 
times in the morning; and so, good-morrow, 
Poins. 

Poins. Good-morrow, good my lord. 

\_Exeunt, 

In the third act of the play a room in the 
same tavern is the scene. Enter Falstaff and 
Bardolph : 

FaL Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely 
since this last action? do I not bate? do I not 
dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like 
an old lady's loose gown; I am withered like an 
old apple-john. Well, I'll repent, and that 
suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be 
out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no 
strength to repent. An I have not forgotten 
what the inside of a church Is made of, I am a 
pepper-corn, a brewer's horse: the Inside of a 
church I Company, villainous company, hath 
been the spoil of me. 

Bard, Sir John, you are so fretful, you can- 
not live long. 

FaL Why, there is it: come, sing me a 
. . . song; make me merry. I was as virtu- 
ously given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous 
enough; swore little; diced not above seven 
times a week; . . . paid money that I bor- 
rowed — three or four times : lived well, and 

121 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

in good compass : and now I live out of all or- 
der, out of all compass. 

Bard. Why, you are so fat. Sir John, that 
you must needs be out of all compass, — out of 
all reasonable compass. Sir John. 

Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll 
amend my life: thou art our admiral, thou 
bearest the lantern in the poop, — but 'tis in the 
nose of thee; thou art the Knight of the Burn- 
ing Lamp. 

Bard, Why, Sir John, my face does you no 
harm. 

Fal. No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use 
of it as many a man doth of a Death's head or a 
memento mori: I never see thy face but I think 
upon hell-fire, and Dives that lived in purple; 
for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. 
If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would 
swear by thy face; my oath should be, By this 
fire, that's God's angel; but thou art altogether 
given over; and wert indeed, but for the light 
in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When 
thou rannest up Gadshill in the night to catch 
my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an 
ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no 
purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual 
triumph, an everlasting bonfire light! Thou 
hast saved me a thousand marks in links and 
torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt 
tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast 

122 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

drunk me would have bought me lights as good 
cheap at the dearest chandler's In Europe. I 
have maintained that salamander of yours with 
fire any time this two-and-thirty years; God re- 
ward me for it ! 



Enter Hostess. 

How now, Dame Partlet the hen ! have you in- 
quired yet who picked my pocket? 

Host, Why, Sir John, what do you think. 
Sir John? do you think I keep thieves In my 
house? I have searched, I have Inquired, so 
has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, serv- 
ant by servant: the tithe of a hair was never 
lost in my house before. 

Fal. You lie, hostess : Bardolph was shaved, 
and lost many a hair; and I'll be sworn my 
pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, 

go. 

Host, Who, I? no; I defy thee: God's 

light, I was never called so in mine own house 

before. 

Fal, Go to, I know you well enough. 

Host, No, Sir John; you do not know me. 
Sir John. I know you. Sir John: you owe me 
money. Sir John; and now you pick a quarrel 
to beguile me of it: I bought you a dozen of 
shirts to your back. 

Fal, Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given 

123 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

them away to bakers' wives, and they have 
made bolters of them. 

Host, Now, as I am a true woman, hol- 
land of eight shillings an ell. You owe money 
here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by- 
drinkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty 
pound. 

Fal. He had his part of it; let him pay. 

Host, He? alas, he is poor; he hath noth- 
ing. 

Fal, How! poor? look upon his face; what 
call you rich? let them coin his nose, let them 
coin his cheeks: I'll not pay a denier. What, 
will you make a younker of me? shall I not 
take mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have my 
pocket picked? I have lost a seal-ring of my 
grandfather's worth forty mark. 

Host. O Jesu, I have heard the prince tell 
him, I know not how oft, that that ring was 
copper ! 

Fal, How! the prince is a Jack, a sneak- 
cup : 'sblood, an he were here I would cudgel 
him like a dog if he would say so. 
Enter Prince Henry and Poins, marching, 

Falstaff meets the Prince, playing on his 

truncheon like a fife. 

Fal. How now, lad! is the wind In that 
door, r faith? must we all march? 

Bard, Yea, two and two, Newgate-fashion. 

Host. My lord, I pray you, hear me. 

124 



WIT AND HU M OUR 

P. Hen. What sayest thou, Mistress 
Quickly? How does thy husband? I love 
him well; he is an honest man. 

Host. Good my lord, hear me. 

Fal. Pr'ythee, let her alone, and list to me. 

P. Hen. What sayest thou, Jack? 

Fal. The other night I fell asleep here be- 
hind the arras, and had my pocket picked : . . . 
they pick pockets. 

P. Hen. What didst thou lose. Jack? 

Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or 
four bonds of forty pound a-piece, and a seal- 
ring of my grandfather's. 

P. Hen. A trifle, some eight-penny matter. 

Host. So I told him, my lord; and I said 
I heard your grace say so: and, my lord, he 
speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed 
man as he is, and said he would cudgel you. 

P. Hen. What! he did not? 

Host, There's neither faith, truth, nor 
womanhood in me else. 

Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in 
a stewed prune ; nor no more truth in thee than 
in a drawn fox; and for womanhood, Maid 
Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward 
to thee. Go, you thing, go. 

Host. Say, what thing? what thing? 

Fal. What thing I why, a thing to thank 
God on. 

Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I 

125 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

would thou shouldst know it; I am an honest 
man's wife; and, setting thy knighthood aside, 
thou art a knave to call me so. 

• ••••• 

P, Hen, Thou sayest true, hostess; and he 
slanders thee most grossly. 

Host, So he doth you, my lord; and said 
this other day you ought him a thousand pound. 

P. Hen, Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand 
pound? 

Fal. A thousand pound, Hal! a million: 
thy love is worth a million; thou owest me thy 
love. 

Host, Nay, my lord, he calPd you Jack, 
and said he would cudgel you. 

Fal, Did I, Bardolph? 

Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so. 

Fal. Yea, — if he said my ring was copper. 

P. Hen, I say 'tis copper: darest thou be as 
good as thy word now? 

Fal, Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art 
but man, I dare : but as thou art prince, I fear 
thee, as I fear the roaring of the lion's whelp, 

P, Hen, And why not as the lion? 

Fal. The king himself is to be feared as 
the lion : dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear 
thy father? nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle 
break. 

P. Hen. , , , Charge an honest woman 
with picking thy pocket! Why, thou . . . 

126 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

impudent, embossed rascal, If there were any- 
thing in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, . . . 
and one poor penny-worth of sugar-candy to 
make thee long-winded, — if thy pocket were 
enriched with any other injuries but these, I 
am a villain: and yet you will stand to it; you 
will not pocket-up wrong: art thou not 
ashamed? 

Fal, Dost thou hear, Hal? thou know- 
est in the state of innocency Adam fell; and 
what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days 
of villainy? Thou seest I have more flesh than 
another man, and therefore more frailty. You 
confess, then, you picked my pocket? 

P, Hen, It appears so by the story. 

Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make 
ready breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy 
servants, cherish thy guests: thou shalt find me 
tractable to any honest reason : thou seest I am 
pacified. — Still? — Nay, pr'ythee, be gone. 
\_Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to the news at 
court : for the robbery, lad, — how is that an- 
swered? 

P, Hen. O, my sweet beef, I must still be 
good angel to thee : — the money is paid back 
again. 

Fal. O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis 
a double labour. 

P. Hen. . I am good friends with my father, 
and may do anything. 

127 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

FaL Rob me the exchequer the first thing 
thou doest, and do it with unwashed hands too. 

Bard. Do, my lord. 

P. Hen. I have procured thee, Jack, a 
charge of foot. 

Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where 
shall I find one that can steal well? O for a 
fine thief, of the age of two-and-twenty or 
thereabouts ! I am heinously unprovided. 
Well, God be thanked for these rebels, — they 
offend none but the virtuous: I laud them, I 
praise them. 

The next appearance of Falstaff is upon a 
public road near Coventry, with Bardolph. 
The knight directs Bardolph to go before him 
to the town and fill him a bottle of sack, and 
directs that his soldiers shall march through. 
Bardolph departs, and Falstaff soliloquises: 

If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a 
soused gurnet. I have misused the king's press 
damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hun- 
dred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd 
pounds. I press me none but good house- 
holders, yeomen's sons; inquire me out con- 
tracted bachelors, such as had been asked twice 
on the bans; such a commodity of warm slaves 
as had as lief hear the devil as a drum; such as 
fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck 

128 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I pressed me none 
but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their 
bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have 
bought out their services; and now my whole 
charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieuten- 
ants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged 
as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the 
glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as, in- 
deed, were never soldiers, but discarded unjust 
serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, 
revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fallen; the 
cankers of a calm world and a long peace; ten 
times more dishonourable ragged than an old- 
faced ancient: and such have I, to fill up the 
rooms of them that have bought out their serv- 
ices, that you would think that I had a hundred 
and fifty tattered prodigals lately come from 
swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A 
mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I 
had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the 
dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scare- 
crows. I'll not march through Coventry with 
them, that's flat: — nay, and the villains march 
wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on; 
for, indeed, I had the most of them out of 
prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all 
my company; and the half-shirt is two napkins 
tacked together and thrown over the shoulders 
like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the 
shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at 

129 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Saint Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper of 
Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen 
enough on every hedge. 
Enter Prince Henry and Westmoreland. 

P. Hen. How now, blown Jack! how now, 
quilt ! 

FaL What, Hal! how now, mad wag! what 
a devil dost thou in Warwickshire ? — My 
good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you 
mercy : I thought your honour had already been 
at Shrewsbury. 

West, Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time 
that I were there, and you too; but my powers 
are there already. The king, I can tell you, 
looks for us all : we must away all night. 

FaL Tut, never fear me: I am as vigilant 
as a cat to steal cream. 

P, Hen. I think, to steal cream, indeed; for 
thy theft hath already made thee butter. But 
tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come 
after? 

FaL Mine, Hal, mine. 

P. Hen. I did never see such pitiful rascals. 

FaL Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food 
for powder, food for powder; they'll fill a pit 
as well as better : tush, man, mortal men, mortal 
men. 

West. Ay, but. Sir John, methinks they are 
exceeding poor and bare, — too beggarly. 

FaL Faith, for their poverty, I know not 

130 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

where they had that; and for their bareness, I 
am sure they never learned that of me. 

P. Hen. No, I'll be sworn; unless you call 
three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, 
make haste: Percy is already in the field. 

Fal. What, is the king encamped? 

West, He Is, Sir John : I fear we shall stay 
too long. 

Fal. Well, 
To the latter end of a fray and the beginning 

of a feast 
Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest. [^Exeunt. 

Sir John next figures In the opening scene of 
the fifth act of the play, In attendance upon the 
king, with Princes Henry and John and Sir 
Walter Blunt, in the royal camp near Shrews- 
bury. There Is a brief dialogue between Prince 
Henry and Falstaff when the others have re- 
tired, and the latter then gives vent to his fa- 
mous views regarding the nature of honour. 

Fal. Hal, If thou see me down In the battle, 
and bestride me, so; 'tis a point of friendship. 

P. Hen. Nothing but a colossus can do thee 
that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell. 

Fal. I would It were bed-time, Hal, and all 
well. 

P. Hen, Why, thou owest God a death. 

\_Exit, 

131 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Fal. 'Tis not due yet; I would be loth to 
pay him before his day. What need I be so 
forward with him that calls not on me? Well, 
'tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but 
how if honour prick me oft when I come on? 
how then? Can honour set-to a leg? no : or an 
arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? 
no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? 
no. What is honour? a word. What is In 
that word, honour? What is that honour? air. 
A trim reckoning! — Who hath it? he that 
died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. 
Doth he hear it? no. Is it insensible, then? 
yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the 
living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it: 
— therefore I'll none of it : honour is a mere 
scutcheon: and so ends my catechism. [^Exit, 

The third scene of the same act is the battle- 
field near Shrewsbury. Sir Walter Blunt en- 
counters Douglas, and is left dead upon the 
ground. While the noise of the combat con- 
tinues Falstaff enters. 

Fal. Though I could 'scape shot-free at 
London, I fear the shot here : here's no scoring 
but upon the pate. — Soft! who art thou? Sir 
Walter Blunt : — there's honour for you : 
here's no vanity ! — I am as hot as molten lead, 
and as heavy too : God keep lead out of me I I 

132 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

need no more weight than my own bowels. — I 
have led my raggamuffins where they are pep- 
pered: there's not three of my hundred and fifty 
left alive; and they are for the town's end, to 
beg during life. — But who comes here? 

Enter Prince Henry. 

P. Hen. What, stand'st thou idle here? 
lend me thy sword: 
Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff 
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies, 
Whose deaths are unreveng'd: pr'ythee, lend 
me thy sword. 

FaL O Hal, I pr'ythee, give me leave to 
breathe awhile. — Turk Gregory never did 
such deeds In arms as I have done this day. 1 
have paid Percy, I have made him sure. 

P. Hen. He Is, Indeed; and living to kill 
thee. Lend me thy sword, I pr'ythee. 

FaL Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be 
alive thou gettest not my sword; but take my 
pistol, If thou wilt. 

P. Hen. Give it me: what, is it in the case? 

Fal. Ay, Hal; 'tis hot, 'tis hot; there's that 
will sack a city. 

\The Prince draws out a bottle of sack. 

P. Hen. What, is't time to jest and dally 
now? [Throws it at him, and exit. 

Fal. Well, If Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. 
If he do come in my way, so; if he do not, if 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

I come in his willingly, let him make a car- 
bonado of me. I like not such grinning hon- 
our as Sir Walter hath : give me life : which if I 
can save, so; if not, honour comes unlooked for, 
and there's an end. [Exit. 

On another part of the plain Prince Henry 
and Hotspur meet, and, while they measure 
swords, Douglas fights with Falstaff, who falls 
as if he were dead. Douglas retires, and Hot- 
spur falls and dies. The prince laments his 
foe's untimely end, and, seeing Falstaff lying 
still upon the ground, exclaims: 

What, old acquaintance ! could not all this flesh 
Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! 
I could have better spar'd a better man. 
O, I should have a heavy miss of thee. 
If I were much In love with vanity. 
Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, 
Though many dearer. In this bloody fray. 
Embowell'd will I see thee by and by: 
Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. [Exit, 
Fal. [Rising slowly, 1 Embowelled! If 
thou embowel me to-day, I'll give you leave to 
powder me and eat me too to-morrow. 'Sblood, 
'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant 
Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counter- 
feit? I lie, I am no counterfeit: to die is to be 
a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a 

134 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

man who hath not the life of a man; but to 
counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, 
is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect 
image of life indeed. The better part of 
valour is discretion; in which better part I have 
saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this 
gunpowder Percy, though he be dead; how if 
he should counterfeit too, and rise? I am 
afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. 
Therefore I'll make him sure: yea, and I'll 
swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as 
well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and 
nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah [stabbing 
him]y with a new wound in your thigh, come 
you along with me. 

[Takes Hotspur on his back. 

Re-enter Prince Henry and Prince John. 

P, John, But, soft! whom have we here? 
Did you not tell me this fat man was dead ? 

P, Hen, I did; I saw him dead, breathless 
and bleeding 
On the ground. — 
Art thou alive ? or Is It fantasy 
That plays upon our eyesight? I pr'ythee, 

speak; 
We will not trust our eyes without our ears : — 
Thou art not what thou seem'st. 

Fal. No, that's certain; I am not a double 

^3S 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

man: but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I 
a Jack. There Is Percy [throwing the body 
downl : if your father will do me any honour, 
so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. 
I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure 
you. 

P. Hen, Why, Percy I killed myself, and 
saw thee dead. 

Fal, Didst thou? — Lord, Lord, how this 
world is given to lying ! I grant you I was down 
and out of breath, and so was he; but we rose 
both at an instant, and fought a long hour by 
Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so; 
if not, let them that should reward valour bear 
the sin upon their own heads. I'll take it upon 
my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh : 
if the man were alive, and would deny it, 
zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my 
sword. 

P. John. This is the strangest tale that e'er 
I heard. 

P, Hen. This Is the strangest fellow, 
brother John. — 
Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back : 
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, 
I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have. 
The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is 
ours. . . . 

{Exeunt P. Henry and P. John. 

FaL I'll follow, as they say, for reward. 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

He that rewards me, God reward him! If I 
do grow great, I'll grow less ; for I'll purge, and 
leave sack, and live cleanly, as a nobleman 
should do. [^Exit, bearing of the body. 

In the second part of the play of " King 
Henry IV," Falstaff appears on a London 
street, with his page bearing his sword and 
buckler. 

Fal. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at 
me: the brain of this foolish-compounded clay, / 
man, is not able to invent anything that tends 
to laughter, more than I invent or is invented 
on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the 
cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk 
before thee like a sow that hath overwhelmed 
all her litter but one. If the prince put thee 
into my service for any other reason than to set 
me off, why then I have no judgment. Thou 
. . . mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in 
my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never 
manned with an agate till now: but I will set 
you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile ap- 
parel, and send you back again to your master, 
for a jewel, — the juvenal, the prince your mas- 
ter, whose chin is not yet fledged. I will 
sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my 
hand than he shall get one on his cheek; and yet 
he will not stick to say his face is a face-royal: 

137 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

God may finish It when he will, It Is not a hair 
amiss yet: he may keep It still as a face-royal, 
for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of 
it; and yet he will be crowing as If he had writ 
man ever since his father was a bachelor. He 
may keep his own grace, but he Is almost out 
of mine, I can assure him. — What said Master 
Dumbleton about the satin for my short cloak 
and my slops? 

Page. He said, sir, you should procure him 
better assurance than Bardolph : he would not 
take his bond and yours; he liked not the se- 
curity. 

Fal. Let him be damned, like the glutton! 
may his tongue be hotter ! — A . . . rascally 
yea-forsooth knave ! to bear a gentleman in 
hand, and then stand upon security! — ... I 
had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth 
as offer to stop It with security. 

• •«••• 

Page. Sir, here comes the nobleman that 
committed the prince for striking him about 
Bardolph. 

Fal. Wait close; I will not see him. 
Enter the Lord Chief- Justice and an Attendant. 

Ch. Just. What's he that goes there? 

Atten. Falstaff, an 't please your lordship. 

Ch. Just. He that was in question for the 
robbery? 

Atten. He, my lord: but he hath since done 

138 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

good service at Shrewsbury; and, as I hear, Is 
now going with some charge to the Lord John 
of Lancaster. 

Ch. Just, What, to York? Call him back 
again. 

Atten, Sir John Falstaff! 

Fal. Boy, tell him, I am deaf. 

Page. You must speak louder; my master 
is deaf. 

Ch. Just, I am sure he is, to the hearing of 
anything good. — Go, pluck him by the elbow; 
I must speak with him. 

Atten. Sir John, — 

Fal. What! a young knave, and begging! 
Is there not wars? is there not employment? 
Doth not the king lack subjects? Do not the 
rebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame 
to be on any side but one, it is worse shame to 
beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse 
than the name of rebellion can tell how to make 
it. 

Atten. You mistake me, sir. 

Fal. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest 
man? setting my knighthood and my soldier- 
ship aside, I had lied in my throat if I had said 
so. 

Atten. I pray you, sir, then set your knight- 
hood and your soldiership aside; and give me 
leave to tell you, you lie in your throat, if you 
say I am any other than an honest man. 

139 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Fal. I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay- 
aside that which grows to me ! If thou get- 
test any leave of me, hang me; If thou takest 
leave, thou wert better be hanged ! You hunt- 
counter, hence ! avant ! 

Atten. Sir, my lord would speak with you. 

Ch, Just. Sir John Falstaff, a word with 
you. 

FaL My good lord ! — God give your 
lordship good time of day. I am glad to see 
your lordship abroad: I heard say your lord- 
ship was sick: I hope your lordship goes 
abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not 
clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of 
age in you, some relish of the saltness of time; 
and I most humbly beseech your lordship to 
have a reverent care of your health. 

Ch. Just. Sir John, I sent for you before 
your expedition to Shrewsbury. 

Fal. An 't please your lordship, I hear his 
majesty Is returned with some discomfort from 
Wales. 

Ch. Just. I talk not of his majesty: — you 
would not come when I sent for you. 

Fal. And I hear, moreover, his highness is 
fallen into . . . apoplexy. 

Ch. Just. Well, God mend him ! I pray 
you let me speak with you. 

Fal. This apoplexy Is, as I take It, a kind 

140 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

of lethargy, an 't please your lordship; a kind 
of sleeping In the blood, a . . . tingling. 

Ch, Just, What tell you me of It? be it as 
It is. 

Fal. It hath Its original from much grief, 
from study, and perturbation of the brain I I 
have read the cause of his effects in Galen ; it is 
a kind of deafness. 

Ch. Just. I think you are fallen Into the 
disease; for you hear not what I say to you. 

Fal. Very well, my lord, very well : rather, 
an 't please you, it is the disease of not listening, 
the malady of not marking, that I am trou- 
bled withal. 

Ch. Just. To punish you by the heels would 
amend the attention of your ears; and I care 
not if I do become your physician. 

Fal. I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not 
so patient: your lordship may minister the po- 
tion of imprisonment to me in respect of pov- 
erty; but how should I be your patient to follow 
your prescriptions, the wise may make some 
dram of a scruple, or, indeed, a scruple itself. 

Ch. Just. I sent for you when there were 
matters against you for your life, to come speak 
with me. 

Fal. As I was then advised by my learned 
counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did 
not come. 

141 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Ch. Just. Well, the truth Is, Sir John, you 
live In great Infamy. 

FaL He that buckles him In my belt cannot 
live In less. 

Ch. Just. Your means are very slender, and 
your waste Is great. 

Fal. I would it were otherwise; I would 
my means were greater and my waist slenderer. 

Ch. Just. You have misled the youthful 
prince. 

Fal. The young prince hath misled me: I 
am the fellow with the great belly, and he my 
dog. 

Ch. Just. Well, I am loth to gall a new- 
healed wound: your day's service at Shrews- 
bury hath a little gilded over your night's ex- 
ploit on Gadshill: you may thank the unquiet 
time for your quiet o'erposting that action. 

Fal. My lord,— 

Ch. Just. But since all is well, keep it so: 
wake not a sleeping wolf. 

Fal. To wake a wolf Is as bad as to smell 
a fox. 

Ch. Just. What! you are as a candle, the 
better part burnt out. 

Fal. A wassail candle, my lord; all tallow: 
if I did say of wax, my growth would approve 
the truth. 

Ch. Just. There Is not a white hair on your 
face but should have his effect of gravity. 

142 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

FaL His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy. 

Ch, Just, You follow the young prince up 
and down, like his ill angel. 

Fal. Not so, my lord; your ill angel is 
light; but I hope he that looks upon me will 
take me without weighing: and yet, in some 
respects, I grant, I cannot go : — I cannot tell. 
Virtue is of so little regard in these coster- 
monger times that true valour is turned bear- 
herd: pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath 
his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all 
the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice 
of this age shapes them, are not worth a goose- 
berry. You that are old consider not the ca- 
pacities of us that are young; you measure the 
heat of our livers with the bitterness of your 
galls: and we that are in the vaward of our 
youth, I mu3t confess, are wags too. 

Ch. Just. Do you set down your name in 
the scroll of youth, that are written down old 
with all the characters of age? Have you not 
a moist eye? a dry hand? a yellow cheek? a 
white beard? a decreasing leg? an increasing 
belly? Is not your voice broken? your wind 
short? your chin double? your wit single? and 
every part about you blasted with antiquity? 
and will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, 
fie, Sir John! 

Fal. My lord, I was born about three of 
the clock in the afternoon, with a white head, 

143 



SHAKESPEARE ' S 

and something a round belly. For my voice, 
— I have lost It with hollaing and singing of 
anthems. To approve my youth further, I will 
not; the truth Is, I am only old In judgment and 
understanding; and he that will caper with me 
for a thousand marks, let him lend me the 
money, and have at him. For the box o' the 
ear that the prince gave you, — he gave it like 
a rude prince, and you took It like a sensible 
lord. I have checked him for It; and the 
young lion repents; marry, not in ashes and 
sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack. 

Ch. Just, Well, God send the prince a bet- 
ter companion! 

Fal. God send the companion a better 
prince ! I cannot rid my hands of him. 

Ch. Just, Well, the king hath severed you 
and Prince Harry: I hear you are going with 
Lord John of Lancaster against the archbishop 
and the Earl of Northumberland. 

Fal. Yea ; I thank your pretty sweet wit for 
it. But look you, pray, all you that kiss my 
Lady Peace at home, that our armies join not 
In a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two 
shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat 
extraordinarily: if it be a hot day, and I brand- 
ish anything but my bottle, I would I might 
never spit white again. There is not a danger- 
ous action can peep out his head but I am thrust 
upon it: well, I cannot last ever: but it was 

144 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

always yet the trick of our English nation, if 
they have a good thing, to make it too com- 
mon. If you will needs say I am an old man, 
you should give me rest. I would to God my 
name were not so terrible to the enemy as it 
is: I were better to be eaten to death with rust 
than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual 
motion. 

Ch. Just. Well, be honest, be honest; and 
God bless your expedition ! 

Fal. Will your lordship lend me a thou- 
sand pound to furnish me forth ? 

Ch. Just. Not a penny, not a penny; you 
are too impatient to bear crosses. Fare you 
well: commend me to my cousin Westmore- 
land. 

[Exeunt Chief-Justice and Attendant. 

Fal. If I do, fillip me with a three-man 
beetle. 

• ••••• 

Fal, What money is in my purse? 

Page. Seven groats and two pence. 

Fal. I can get no remedy against this con- 
sumption of the purse : borrowing only lingers 
and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. 
— Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancas- 
ter ; this to the prince ; this to the Earl of West- 
moreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, 
whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I 
perceived the first white hair on my chin. 

145 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

About It; you know where to find me. [Exit 
Page.] ... It is no matter If I do halt; I 
have the wars for my colour, and my pension 
shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit 
will make use of anything. I will turn diseases 
to commodity. \_Exit. 

A second street scene in London opens with 
Constables Fang and Snare waiting to arrest 
Falstaff for debt, at the suit of Mistress Quickly, 
hostess of a tavern In Eastcheap. She warns 
them to be wary; that "he will foln (fence) 
like any devil; he will spare neither man, 
woman, nor child." She proceeds to lament be- 
cause of his heavy debt to her, declaring: 

I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he 
Is an Infinitive thing upon my score : — good 
Master Fang, hold him sure : — good Master 
Snare, let him not 'scape. ... A hundred 
mark is a long loan for a poor, lone woman to 
bear: and I have borne, and borne, and borne. 
. . . There Is no honesty in such dealing; un- 
less a woman should be made an ass and a beast, 
to 'bear every knave's wrong. Yonder he comes ; 
and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph, 
with him. Do your oflices, do your offices, 
Master Fang and Master Snare; do me, do me, 
do me your offices. 

146 



WIT AND HUMOUR 



Enter Sir John Falstaff, Page, and Bar- 

DOLPH. 

FaL How now ! whose mare's dead ? what's 
the matter. 

Fang. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of 
Mistress Quickly. 

Fal. Away, varlets ! — Draw, Bardolph : 
cut me off the villain's head; throw the quean 
in the channel. 

Host. Throw me In the channel! I'll 
throw thee in the channel. Wilt thou? wilt 
thou ? thou bastardly rogue ! — Murder, mur- 
der! O thou honeysuckle villain! wilt thou 
kill God's officers and the king's? O thou 
honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed; a 
man-queller and a woman-queller. 

Fal. Keep them off, Bardolph. 

Fang. A rescue ! a rescue ! 

Host. Good people, bring a rescue or two. 
— Thou wo't, wo't thou ? thou wo't, wo't 
thou ? do, do, thou rogue ! do, thou hemp-seed ! 

Fal. Away, you scullion! you rampallian! 
you fustilarian! . . . 

The Lord Chief Justice enters, stops the tu- 
mult, and, after making inquiry of the hostess, 
rebukes Falstaff for his wrong-doing and evil 
ways. 

H7 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

FaL What is the gross sum that I owe 
thee ? 

Host, Marry, if thou wert an honest man, 
thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear 
to me upon a parcel-gift goblet, sitting in my 
Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea- 
coal fire, upon Wednesday in Whitsun-week, 
when the prince broke thy head for liking his 
father to a singing-man of Windsor, — thou 
didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy 
wound, to marry me, and make me my lady 
thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not 
goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in 
then, and call me gossip Quickly? coming in to 
borrow a mess of vinegar; telling us she had a 
good dish of pawns; whereby thou didst desire 
to eat some; whereby I told thee they were ill 
for a green wound? And didst thou not, 
when she was gone down stairs, desire me to 
be no more so familiarity with such poor peo- 
ple; saying that ere long they should call me 
madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid 
me fetch the thirty shillings? I put thee now 
to thy book-oath : deny it, if thou canst ! 

FaL My lord, this is a poor mad soul; and 
she says, up and down the town, that her eldest 
son is like you: she hath been in good case, 
and, the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. 
But for these foolish officers, I beseech you I 
may have redress against them. . . . 

148 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

The Chief Justice further rebukes Sir John 
and admonishes him to pay the hostess. Fal- 
staff again asks for deHverance from the con- 
stables, " being upon hasty employment in the 
king's affairs." He takes the woman aside, and 
what here follows is heard to pass between 
them : 

Fal, As I am a gentleman, — 

Host. Nay, you said so before. 

FaL As I am a gentleman : — come, no 
more words of it. 

Host, By this heavenly ground I tread on, 
I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the 
tapestry of my dining-chambers. 

FaL Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking: 
and for thy walls, — a pretty slight drollery, or 
the story of the Prodigal, or the German hunt- 
ing in water-work, is worth a thousand of these 
bed-hangings and these fly-bitten tapestries. 
Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, an 
it were not for thy humours, there is not a bet- 
ter wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and 
draw thy action. Come, thou must not be in 
this humour with me ; dost not know me ? come, 
come, I know thou wast set on to this. 

Host. Pray thee. Sir John, let it be but 
twenty nobles: i' faith, I am loth to pawn my 
plate, so God save me, la. 

149 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Fal, Let It alone; I'll make other shift: 
you'll be a fool still. 

Host, Well, you shall have it, though 1 
pawn my gown. I hope you'll come to sup- 
per. You'll pay me all together? 

FaL Will I live ? 

In the third act Falstaff and Bardolph appear 
in a courtyard before Justice Shallow's house in 
Gloucestershire, to which they have come on a 
recruiting mission. After half-a-dozen men, 
assembled by the foolish Justice, have been ex- 
amined for military service by Sir John, in bur- 
lesque fashion, the selection Is finally made as 
follows : 

FaL Come sir, which men shall I have? 

ShaL Four of which you please. 

Bard. Sir, a word with you : — I have 
three pound to free Mouldy and Bullcalf. 

Fal. Go to; well. 

ShaL Come, Sir John, which four will you 
have? 

FaL Do you choose for me. 

ShaL Marry, then, — Mouldy, Bullcalf, 
Feeble, and Shadow. 

FaL Mouldy and Bullcalf: — for t you, 
Mouldy, stay at home till you are past service: 
and for your part, Bullcalf, — grow until you 
come unto it: I will none of you. 

150 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

ShaL sir John, Sir John, do not yourself 
wrong: they are your likeliest men, and I would 
have you served with the best. 

Fal. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, 
how to choose a man? Care I for the limb, the 
thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance 
of a man! Give me the spirit. Master Shal- 
low. — Here^s Wart ; — you see what a ragged 
appearance It is : he shall charge you and dis- 
charge you, with the motion of a pewterer's 
hammer; come off, and on, swifter than he that 
gibbets-on the brewer's bucket. And this same 
half-faced fellow. Shadow, — give me this man : 
he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman 
may with as great aim level at the edge of a 
penknife. And, for a retreat, — how swiftly 
will this Feeble, the woman's tailor, run off I 
O, give me the spare men, and spare me the 
great ones. — Put me a caliver into Wart's 
hand, Bardolph. 

After Shallow and the others have left the 
scene, Falstaff remains and thus to himself ridi- 
cules the Justice: 

... I do see the bottom of Justice Shallow. 
Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to 
this vice of lying! This same starved justice 
hath done nothing but prate to me of the wlld- 
ness of his youth, and the feats he hath done 
about Turnbull Street; and every third word 

151 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's 
tribute. I do remember him at Clement's-Inn, 
like a man made after supper of a cheese-par- 
ing: when he was naked, he was, for all the 
world, like a forked radish, with a head fan- 
tastically carved upon it with a knife : he was so 
forlorn that his dimensions to any thick sight 
were invincible: he was the very genius of 
famine: ... he came ever In the rearward of 
the fashion; and sung those tunes to the over- 
scutched huswifes that he heard the carmen 
whistle, and sware they were his fancies or his 
good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger be- 
come a squire, and talks as familiarly of John 
of Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to 
him; and I'll be sworn he never saw him but 
once in the Tilt-yard; and then he burst his 
head for crowding among the marshal's men. 
I saw it and told John of Gaunt he beat his own 
name ; for you might have thrust him and all his 
apparel Into an eel-skin; the case of a treble 
hautboy was a mansion for him, a court : — and 
now he has land and beeves. Well, I will be 
acquainted with him if I return; and It shall go 
hard but I will make him a philosopher's two 
stones to me: if the young dace be a bait for 
the old pike, I see no reason in the law of na- 
ture, but I may snap at him. Let time shape, 
and there an end. [Exit. 



152 



\ 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Falstaff reappears in the fourth act. The 
scene Is a forest in Yorkshire, where he en- 
counters Sir John Coleville of the Dale, a 
knight of the forces opposed to the king. Fal- 
staff arraigns him as a traitor, and Coleville 
surrenders, remarking: 

I think you are Sir John Falstaff; and in that 
thought yield me. 

This would appear to indicate that Falstaff 
had some military repute, and was not regarded 
as a poltroon. For Coleville is later addressed 
by Prince John as " a famous rebel," and his 
reply to the prince showed him to be courage- 
ous. Such a brave knight scarcely would have 
yielded to Falstaff without a blow had not the 
latter enjoyed some reputation for valour, how- 
ever Ill-deserved. 

Immediately after Coleville's surrender. 
Prince John comes on the scene. 

P, John. Now, Falstaff, where have you 
been all this while ? 
When everything is ended, then you come : 
These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life, 
One time or other break some gallows back. 

FaL I would be sorry, my lord, but it 

^S2 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

should be thus : I never knew yet but rebuke and 
check was the reward of valour. Do you 
think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? have 
I, in my poor and old motion, the expedition 
of thought? I have speeded hither with the 
very extremest inch of possibility; I have 
foundered nine-score and odd posts: and here, 
travel tainted as I am, have, in my pure and 
immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colevile of 
the dale, a most furious knight and valourous 
enemy. But what of that? he saw me, and 
yielded; that I may justly say with the hook- 
nosed fellow of Rome, — I came, saw, and 
overcame. 

P. John, It was more of his courtesy than 
your deserving. 

FaL I know not : — here he is, and here I 
yield him: and I beseech your grace, let it be 
booked with the rest of this day's deeds ; or, by 
the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad 
else, with mine own picture on the top of it, 
Colevile kissing my foot. 

• ••••• 

P. John. Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my 
condition. 
Shall better speak of you than you deserve. 

[Exeunt all but Fal. 

FaL I would you had but the wit: 'twere 

better than your dukedom. Good faith, this 

same young sober-blooded boy doth not love 

154 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; — but 
that's no marvel; he drinks no wine. ... A 
good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in 
it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there 
all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which 
environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, for- 
getive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable 
shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice, — the 
tongue, — which is the birth, becomes excellent 
wit. The second property of your excellent 
sherris is, — the warming of the blood; which, 
before cold and settled, left the liver white and 
pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and 
cowardice : but the sherris warms it, and makes 
it course from the inwards to the parts extreme : 
it illumineth the face ; which, as a beacon, gives 
warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, 
man, to arm; and then the vital commoners and 
inland petty spirits muster me all to their cap- 
tain, the heart, who, great and puffed up with 
this retinue, doth any deed of courage : and this 
valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the 
weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it 
a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold 
kept by a devil till sack commences it and sets it 
in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince 
Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did 
naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like 
lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, hus- 
banded, and tilled, with excellent endeavour of 

155 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, 
that he is become very hot and vahant. If I 
had a thousand sons, the first human principle 
I would teach them should be, — to forswear 
thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack- 
Sack, which Falstaff extolled so highly, and 
drank copiously, was a strong Spanish wine, 
probably sherry, or resembling it. 

From the forest, attended by Bardolph, Fal- 
staff proceeds to the home of Justice Shallow, 
in Gloucestershire, where he is made welcome, 
with profuse expressions of hospitality. But, 
as soon as he Is left alone, the rotund knight 
satirises his host In this fashion: 

If I were sawed into quantities, I should 
make four dozen of such bearded hermits* 
staves as Master Shallow. It Is a wonderful 
thing to see the semblable coherence of his men's 
spirits and his: they, by observing of him, do 
bear themselves like foolish justices; he, by con- 
versing with them. Is turned into a justice-like 
serving-man: their spirits are so married In 
conjunction with the participation of society 
that they flock together In consent, like so many 
wild geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, 
I would humour his men with the Imputation 
of being near their master: If to his men, I 
would curry with Master Shallow that no man 

156 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

could better command his servants. It is cer- 
tain that either wise bearing or Ignorant car- 
riage Is caught, as men take diseases, one of 
another: therefore, let men take heed of their 
company. I will devise matter enough out of 
this Shallow to keep Prince Harry In continual 
laughter the wearing out of six fashions. 

While Falstaff tarries, as a guest of the Jus- 
tice, Pistol brings news of the death of the 
old king and of Prince Henry's succession to 
the throne. 

FaL Away, Bardolph ! saddle my horse. — 
Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou 
wilt in the land, 'tis thine. — Pistol, I will dou- 
ble-charge thee with dignities. 

Bard. O joyful day! 
I would not take a knighthood for my fortune. 

Plst, What, I do bring good news ? 

FaL Carry Master Silence to bed. — Mas- 
ter Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou 
wilt; I am fortune's steward. Get on thy 
boots : we'll ride all night : — O sweet Pistol ! 

— away, Bardolph! [^Exit Bardolph.] 

— Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and, withal, 
devise something to do thyself good. — Boot, 
boot, Master Shallow: I know the young king 
is sick for me. Let us take any man's horses; 
the laws of England are at my commandment. 

15.7. 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Happy are they which have been my friends; 
and woe unto my lord Chief-Justice! 

Falstaff and his followers, accompanied by 
Justice Shallow, ride post-haste to London, and 
take their stand In a public place near West- 
minster Abbey, where they may see the young 
king returning from the coronation ceremonies. 

Fal. Stand here by me. Master Robert 
Shallow; I will make the king do you grace: I 
will leer upon him, as he comes by; and do but 
mark the countenance that he will give me. 

Pist, God bless thy lungs, good knight. 

Fal. Come here, Pistol; stand behind me. 
— O, if I had had time to have made new liv- 
eries, I would have bestowed the thousand 
pound I borrowed of you [to Shallow]. But 
'tis no matter; this poor show doth better: this 
doth infer the zeal I had to see him, — 

ShaL It doth so. 

Fal. It shows my earnestness of affec- 
tion, — 

ShaL It doth so. 

Fal. My devotion, — 

ShaL It doth, it doth, it doth. 

But the knight and his retainers are doomed 
to sad disappointment. 



158 



WIT AND HUMOUR 



Enter the King and his Train, the Chief- Jus- 
tice among them. 

Fal. God save thy grace, King Hal; my 
royal Hal! 

Pist. The heavens thee guard and keep, 
most royal imp of fame ! 

Fal. God save thee, my sweet boy ! 

King. My lord chief-justice, speak to that 
vain man. 

Ch. Just. Have you your wits? know you 
what 'tis you speak? 

Fal. My king ! my Jove ! I speak to thee, 
my heart ! 

King. I know thee not, old man ; fall to thy 
prayers. 

And the king proceeds with his stern rebuke, 
admonishing Falstaff to amend his life, and 
banishing him, on pain of death, not to come 
within ten miles of the royal person, but prom- 
ising him an allowance, that lack of means may 
not force him to evil ways. The king charges 
the Chief Justice to see the tenor of the royal 
word performed, and goes on his way, with his 
train. 

Fal. Master Shallow, I owe you a thou- 
sand pound. 

159 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

ShaL Yea, marry, Sir John; which I be- 
seech you to let me have home with me. 

FaL That can hardly be, Master Shallow. 
Do not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for 
in private to him : look you, he must seem thus 
to the world: fear not your advancement; I will 
be the man yet that shall make you great. 

ShaL I cannot perceive how, — unless you 
give me your doublet, and stuff me out with 
straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me 
have live hundred of my thousand. 

'FaL Sir, I will be as good as my word : this 
that you heard was but a colour. 

ShaL A colour, I fear, that you will die in, 
Sir John. 

FaL Fear no colours : go with me to dinner. 
Come, Lieutenant Pistol; — come, Bardolph: 
— I shall be sent for soon at night. 

Re-enter Prince John, the Chief- Justice, 

Officers, ^c, 

Ch. Just, Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the 
Fleet; 
Take all his company along with him. 
FaL My lord, my lord, — 
Ch, Just, I cannot now speak: I will hear 
you soon. — 
Take them away. 

Falstaff's imprisonment may have been brief, 
but it appears from the first act of the play of 

1 60 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

" King Henry V " that the old knight was 
greatly broken by his disappointment and the 
harsh treatment he received from the young 
king, his quondam boon companion. He is re- 
ported very ill of a fever in the Boar's Head 
tavern, where Pistol has become host by mar- 
riage with the widow Quickly. And the 
woman exclaims, when they are called to the 
bedside of the dying Sir John : 

The king has killed his heart. 

Some time later, Pistol announces to Bar- 
dolph and Nym that Falstaff is dead, and that 
they all " must yearn therefore." 

Bard. Would I were with him, where- 
some'er he is, either in heaven or in hell ! 

Host, Nay, sure, he's not in hell : he's In 
Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's 
bosom. 'A made a finer end, and went away, 
an it had been any christom child; 'a parted 
even just between twelve and one, even at the 
turning o' the tide: for after I saw him fumble 
with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile 
upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one 
way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a 
babbled of green fields. How now, Sir John! 
quoth I: what, man! he o* good cheer. So 'a 
cried out — God, God, God! three or four 

i6i 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him 'a 
should not think of God; I hoped there was no 
need to trouble himself with any such thoughts 
yet. So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his 
feet : I put my hand into the bed and felt them, 
and they were as cold as any stone. 

The character of Falstaff has been scored 
very severely by some learned critics as utterly 
vile, worthless, and contemptible. But it would 
seem that Shakespeare could not so have re- 
garded it, else Bardolph scarcely would have 
been made to manifest for his dead patron so 
profound a regard as that expressed in his brief 
comment. 

We must admit that the corpulent old knight 
was a very sinful person, a rogue without hon- 
our, a drunkard, and a liar. And yet, with all 
his faults, we are charmed by his Infinite wit 
and gaiety of spirit, and his unfailing good 
humour and cheerfulness. 



162 



XING HENRY V 

After the death of Falstafi, Bardolph, Nym, 
and Pistol join the British army in France. 
The first scene of the third act of " King 
Henry V " finds them outside the walls of the 
city of Harfleur, where an active siege is in 
progress. They are attended by the keen- 
witted boy who was page to their former 
master. 

Bardolph cries, " On, on to the breach," but 
Nym says, "Pray thee, corporal, stay; the 
knocks are too hot," and Pistol chimes in with 
a like sentiment, while the lad expresses the 
wish that he were again in London. " I would 
give all my fame," he declares, " for a pot of 
ale and safety," which is just what Falstaff 
might have said in a like situation. 

Then enters Captain Fluellen, a Welsh offi- 
cer of King Henry's forces, and drives the lag- 
gards forward, crying: 

Up to the preach, you dogs! avaunt, you 
cullions I 

163 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

The boy alone remains, and thus character- 
ises the erstwhile followers of Sir John: 

As young as I am, I have observed these 
three swashers. I am boy to them all three: 
but all they three, though they would serve me, 
could not be man to me; for, indeed, three such 
antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, 

— he is white-livered and red- faced; by the 
means whereof 'a faces it out, but fights not. 
For Pistol, — he hath a killing tongue and a 
quiet sword; by the means whereof 'a breaks 
words and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, 

— he hath heard that men of few words are 
the best men; and therefore he scorns to say 
his prayers lest 'a should be thought a coward : 
but his few bad words are matched with as few 
good deeds; for 'a never broke any man's head 
but his own, and that was against a post when 
he was drunk. They will steal anything, and 
call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, 
bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three 
halfpence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn 
brothers in filching; and in Calais they stole a 
fire-shovel: I knew by that piece of service the 
men would carry coals. They would have me 
as familiar with men's pockets as their gloves 
or their handkerchers : which makes much 
against my manhood, if I should take from 
another's pocket to put into mine; for it is plain 
pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, 

164 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

and seek some better service : their villainy goes 
against my weak stomach, and therefore I must 
cast it up. \_Exit. 

The scene shifts to the British camp In 
Picardy, where the simple-minded, credulous 
Fluellen commends to the Welsh commander, 
Gower, the *' gallant service,'' of " Ancient 
Pistol " " at the pridge," and likens him to 
Mark Antony in valour. Pistol enters and im- 
plores pardon for Bardolph, in these words: 

Fortune Is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on him; 
For he hath stol'n a pax, and hanged must 'a 

be, — 
A damned death! 

Let gallows gap for dog; let man go free. 
And let no hemp his windpipe suffocate : 
But Exeter hath given the doom of death 
For pax of little price. 
Therefore, go speak, — the duke will hear thy 

voice; 
And let not Bardolph's vital thread be cut 
With edge of penny cord and vile reproach : 
Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee re- 
quite. 

Flu. Auncient Pistol, I do partly under- 
stand your meaning. 

Pist, Why, then, rejoice therefore. 

Flu. Certainly, Auncient, it is not a thing to 

165 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

rejoice at: for If, look you, he were my prother 
I would desire the duke to use his goot pleasure, 
and put him to execution; for discipline ought 
to be used. 

Pist. Die and be damn'd! and fico for thy 
friendship ! 



[Exit Pistol. 

Gow, Why, this is an arrant counterfeit 
rascal; I remember him now; . . . 

Flu, I'll assure you, 'a uttered as prave 
'ords at the pridge as you shall see in a sum- 
mer's day. . . . 

Gow. Why, 'tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that 
now and then goes to the wars, to grace him- 
self, at his return into London, under the form 
of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in 
the great commanders' names: and they will 
learn you by rote where services were done; — 
at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at 
such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was 
shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy 
stood on; and this they con perfectly in the 
phrase of war, which they trick up with new- 
tuned oaths: and what a beard of the general's 
cut, and a horrid suit of the camp, will do 
among foaming bottles and ale-washed wits, is 
wonderful to be thought on. But you must 
learn to know such slanders of the age, or else 
you may be marvellously mistook. 

i66 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

'Later, on the battlefield, Pistol, attended by 
the boy, captures a French soldier and threat- 
ens to cut his throat unless given, in his ridicu- 
lously bombastic phrase, " egregious ransom." 
The boy interprets the Frenchman's promise to 
pay two hundred crowns, and Pistol says : 

Tell him my fury shall abate, and I 
The crowns will take. 

Pistol goes out, followed by his prisoner, and 
the boy comments: 

I did never know so full a voice issue from so 
empty a heart: but the saying is true, — the 
empty vessel makes the greatest sound. Bar- 
dolph and Nym had ten times more valour than 
this roaring devil i' the old play, that every one 
may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; and 
they are both hanged; and so would this be if 
he durst steal anything adventurously. I must 
stay with the lackeys, with the luggage of our 
camp: the French might have a good prey of 
us if he knew of It; for there is none to guard 
it but boys. \^Exit. 

In a subsequent scene, Fluellen denounces 
Pistol as " a peggarly, pragglng knave," cudgels 
him soundly, despite his threats of vengeance, 

167 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

and compels him to eat a leek and to accept a 
groat '' to heal his pate." 

" I take thy groat in earnest of vengeance," 
says the swaggering coward, and, after the 
Welshman departs, he exclaims : 

All hell shall stir for this ! 

But presently, crestfallen after some con- 
temptuous words from Gower, who saw him 
forced to eat the leek. Pistol soliloquises: 

News have I that my Nell is dead . . . 
And there my rendezvous is quite cut off. 
Old do I wax, and from my weary limbs 
Honour is cudgeled. . . . 
To England will I steal, and there I'll steal : 
And patches will I get unto these scars. 
And swear I got them in the Gallia wars. 

And with these words the fantastic knave 
makes his final exit from the stage. 

The play of " King Henry V " is much en- 
livened by the young king's wooing of Princess 
Katherine of France, who speaks but little Eng- 
lish. He addresses her in semi-humourous 
fashion, thus: 

. . . r faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy 
understanding: I am glad thou canst speak no 

i68 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

better English; for if thou couldst, thou wouldst 
find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think . 
I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know 
no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say 
I love you: then, if you urge me further than 
to say. Do you in faith? I wear out my suit. 
Give me your answer; i' faith, do; and so clap 
hands and a bargain: how say you, lady? 

Kath. Sauf votre honneur^ me understand 
veil. 

K, Hen. Marry, if you would put me to 
verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why 
you undid me : for the one I have neither words 
nor measure, and for the other I have no 
strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure 
in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, 
or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour 
on my back, under the correction of bragging 
be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife. 
Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my 
horse for her favours, I could lay on like a 
butcher, and sit like a jack-a-napes, never off. 
But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly, 
nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have cunning 
In protestation; only downright oaths, which I 
never use till urged, nor never break for urg- 
ing. If thou canst love a fellow of this tem- 
per, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, 
that never looks In his glass for love of any- 
thing he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. 

169 



SHAKESPEARE'S i 

I speak to thee plain soldier: If thou canst love 
me for this, take me; if not, to say to thee that 
I shall die Is true, — but for thy love, by the 
Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou 
llvest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and 
uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do 
thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo 
in other places: for these fellows of infinite 
tongue, that can rhyme themselves Into ladies' 
favours, they do always reason themselves out 
again. What! a speaker Is but a prater: a 
rhyme Is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a 
straight back will stoop ; a black beard will turn 
white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face 
will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a 
good heart, Kate, Is the sun and the moon; or, 
rather, the sun, and not the moon, — for It 
shines bright and never changes, but keeps his 
course truly. If thou would have such a one, 
take me: and take me, take a soldier; take a 
soldier, take a king: and what sayest thou, then, 
to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray 
thee. 

Kath. Is it possible dat I should love de 
enemy of France? 

K. Hen, No; It Is not possible you should 
love the enemy of France, Kate: but in loving 
me you should love the friend of France; for I 
love France so well that I will not part with a 
village of it ; I will have it all mine : and, Kate, 

170 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

when France Is mine and I am yours, then yours 
is France and you are mine. 

Kath. I cannot tell vat is dat. 

K. Hen, No, Kate? I will tell thee In 
French; which I am sure will hang upon my 
tongue like a new-married wife about her hus- 
band's neck, hardly to be shook off. 

• ••••• 

Come, your answer In broken music, — for thy 
voice is music and thy English broken; there- 
fore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to 
me in broken English, — wilt thou have me? 

Kath, Dat is as it sail please de roi mon 
pere. 

K. Hen, Nay, It will please him well, Kate, 
— it shall please him, Kate. 

Kath, Den it sail also content me. 

K, Hen, Upon that I kiss your hand, and I 
call you my queen. 

She tells him In French that she does not wish 
him so to descend from his greatness as to kiss 
her hand, to which he replies: 

Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. 

To this she also objects, saying It Is not the 
custom of France for maids to kiss before they 
are married. This being Interpreted to him, 
he responds: 

171 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

O Kate, nice customs court'sy to great kings. 
Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within 
the weak list of a country's fashion: we are the 
makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that 
follows our places stops the mouth of all find- 
faults, — as I will do yours for upholding the 
nice fashion of your country In denying me a 
kiss: therefore, patiently and yielding. [Kiss- 
ing her.^ You have witchcraft in your lips, 
Kate: there Is more eloquence in a sugar touch 
of them than in the tongues of the French coun- 
cil; and they should sooner persuade Harry of 
England than a general petition of monarchs. 



172 



THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 

There is a tradition that Queen Elizabeth 
was so much pleased with the wit of Falstaff, in 
the play of " King Henry IV," that she directed 
Shakespeare to write another, in which the 
merry knight should be exhibited in a love af- 
fair. And the story goes that she was so eager 
to see the new piece that she ordered it to be 
completed within twelve days. Whether this 
was the origin of " The Merry Wives of Wind- 
sor " may be doubtful, but it appears from in- 
ternal evidence that the play was hastily writ- 
ten. It is a play of intrigue, in which Falstaff 
pays court, at one and the same time, to Mis- 
tresses Ford and Page, married women of 
Windsor, of high respectability and social 
standing. 

These merry wives are close friends, and, lit- 
erally by comparing notes from Sir John, to their 
Intense amusement, they discover his duplicity, 
for he had written to each of them precisely the 
same professions of love. They then put their 

173 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

heads together to Invent a scheme for his dis- 
comfiture. Falstaff Is lured by a message to 
visit Mistress Ford one morning at an ap- 
pointed hour, but soon after his arrival an alarm 
is given by Mistress Page, who says that Ford, 
who is very jealous, Is coming, with officers, to 
search for the knight. Upon the suggestion of 
Mistress Page, Falstaff squeezes himself Into a 
" buck-basket," used for the conveyance of the 
soiled linen of the household to a launderlng- 
place, and the two women cover him with such 
linen. As Ford enters, two serving-men bear 
out Falstaff in the basket. Let the adventur- 
ous knight relate the experience, as some time 
later he communes with himself at the Garter 
Inn, after ordering Bardolph to bring him a 
quart of sack, with a toast In it: 

Have I lived to be carried In a basket, like a 
barrow of butcher's offal ; and to be thrown Into 
the Thames? Well, If I be served such an- 
other trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and 
butter'd, and give them to a dog for a new 
year's gift. The rogues slighted me Into the 
river with as little remorse as they would have 
drowned a bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' the 
litter: and you may know by my size that I have 
a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were 

174 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

as deep as hell I should down. I had been 
drowned but that the shore was shelvy and shal- 
low: a death that I abhor; for the water swells 
a man; and what a thing I should have been 
when I had been swelled ! I should have been 
a mountain of mummy. 

A little later Falstaff tells the jealous Ford, 
who has gained his confidence under the ficti- 
tious name of Brook (with the Idea of reveng- 
ing himself upon the knight and discovering 
what he believes to be his wife's misconduct), 
these further particulars of the misadventure: 

Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple 
of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called forth 
by their mistress to carry me in the name of 
foul clothes to Datchet-lane : they took me on 
their shoulders; met the jealous knave their 
master in the door; who asked them once or 
twice what they had In their basket: I quaked 
for fear lest the lunatic knave would have 
searched it. . . . Well: on went he for a 
search, and away went I for foul clothes. But 
mark the sequel, Master Brook; I suffered the 
pangs of three several deaths: first, an intoler- 
able fright to be detected with a jealous rotten 
bell-wether: next, to be compassed, like a good 
bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to 
point, heel to head: and then, to be stopped in, 

175 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes 
that fretted in their own grease: think of that, 

— a man of my kidney, — think of that: that 
am as subject to heat as butter; a man of con- 
tinual dissolution and thaw; It was a miracle to 
'scape suffocation. And In the height of this 
bath, when I was more than half-stewed In 
grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the 
Thames, and cooled, glowing hot. In that surge, 
like a horse-shoe ; think of that, — hissing hot, 

— think of that. Master Brook. 

Falstaff Is beguiled Into paying Mistress 
Ford another visit, and is again surprised by 
the return of her husband. In order to escape 
discovery, the knight Is Induced to don a gown 
and bonnet belonging to " the fat woman of 
Brentwood," whom Ford regards as a witch 
and cannot abide. When Falstaff, thus dis- 
guised. Is leaving the house, he encounters Ford, 
who beats him soundly with a cudgel, mistaking 
him for the old woman. Later, Falstaff thus 
ruminates over this second misadventure: 

I would all the world might be cozened; for 
I have been cozened and beaten too. If It 
should come to the ear of the court how I have 
been transformed, and how my transformation 
hath been washed and cudgelled, they would 

176 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

melt me out of my fat, drop by drop, and 
liquor fishermen's boots with me; I warrant 
they would whip me with their fine wits till I 
were as crest-fallen, as a dried pear. I never 
prospered since I foreswore myself at primero. 
Well, if my wind were but long enough to say 
my prayers, I would repent. — 

Despite these mishaps, Falstaff is deluded by 
the two fun-loving women into entering a third 
trap. He is induced to meet them at night in 
Windsor Park, disguised as Heme the hunter, 
with a buck's head and horns. There, as the 
pair had planned, a party of children, dressed 
like fairies, with lighted tapers in their hands, 
surround him. Believing them to be fairies, 
and that " he that speaks to them shall die," 
Falstaff lies down upon his face. They pinch 
him, and burn his fingers with the tapers. Then 
Ford, Page, and others, as planned by the 
merry wives, appear, and the old knight is made 
the target of their jests and raillery, to his ex- 
ceeding mortification. But at the close of the 
scene Sir John is invited to accompany them all 
to the home of the Pages, to laugh over the 
sport, " by a country fire." 

The play of " The Merry Wives " is some- 

177 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

what farcical, and affords entertainment even 
more by the humour of its succession of in- 
geniously contrived situations, and its diverting 
incidents, than by its dialogue. In its opening 
part Justice Shallow and Slender, who figure in 
the earlier play of '* King Henry IV," appear 
with Sir Hugh Evans before Page's house, and 
the following amusing colloquy ensues. 

Shal. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will 
make a Star-chamber matter of it; if he were 
twenty Sir John Falstaffs he shall not abuse 
Robert Shallow, esquire. 

Slen, In the county of Gloster, justice of 
peace, and coram. 

Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and Custalorum. 

Slen. Ay, and Ratolorum too; and a gentle- 
man born, master parson; who writes himself 
Armigero; in any bill, warrant, quittance, or ob- 
ligation, — Armigero! 

Shal. Ay, that we do; and have done any 
time these three hundred years. 

Slen. All his successors, gone before him, 
have done't; and all his ancestors, that come 
after him, may: they may give the dozen white 
luces in their coat. 

• ••••• 

Shal. The Council shall hear It; it is a not. 
Eva, It is not meet the Council hear a riot; 

178 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

there Is no fear of Got In a riot; the Council, 
look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, 
and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in 
that. 

ShaL Ha I o' my life, If I were young again, 
the sword should end It. 



Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, 

and Pistol. 

FaL Now, Master Shallow; you'll com- 
plain of me to the king? 

ShaL Knight, you have beaten my men, 
killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. 

FaL But not kissed your keeper's daugh- 
ter? 

ShaL Tut, a pin ! this shall be answered. 

FaL I will answer It straight; — I have 
done all this : — That Is now answered. 

ShaL The Council shall know this. 

FaL 'Twere better for you If It were 
known in counsel: you'll be laughed at. 

Eva, Pauca verba, Sir John, goo,t worts. 

FaL Good worts ! good cabbage. — Slen- 
der, I broke your head; what matter have you 
against me? 

Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter In my head 
against you; and against your coney-catching 
rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They 

179 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

carried me to the tavern, and made me drunk, 
and afterwards picked my pocket. 

In a later scene Sir John discharges Pistol 
and Nym because of their refusal to bear his 
amorous notes to the merry wives. The two 
worthies then plot to revenge themselves by be- 
traying his schemes to Masters Ford and Page, 
which they proceed to do, thus laying the foun- 
dation for Falstaff's subsequent mishaps and 
chagrin. 



i8o 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 

The plot of " Much Ado About Nothing," 
with the exception of the comic portion relative 
to Benedick and Beatrice, seems to have been 
derived from an old Italian novel by Bandello, 
In which the chief Incidents, and even the names 
of some of the characters, are the same. 

The play opens with an announcement by 
Leonato, Governor of Messina, to his daughter, 
Hero, and his niece, Beatrice, that Don Pedro, 
Prince of Arragon, from whom a messenger has 
just brought a letter, is coming to Messina. 
There has been a military action, in which a 
young Florentine noble named Claudio won 
much favour with the prince. Also in the 
prince's train is Benedick, a young nobleman of 
Padua, and concerning him Beatrice makes 
satirical inquiry of the messenger. 

Beatrice, I pray you, how many hath he 
killed and eaten in these wars ? But how many 
hath he killed? for, indeed, I promised to eat 
all of his killing. 

i8i 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Leon, Faith, niece, you tax Signior Bene- 
dick too much; but he'll be meet with you, I 
doubt it not. 

Mess. He hath done good service, lady, 
in these wars. 

Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath 
holp to eat it: he is a very valiant trencherman; 
he hath an excellent stomach. 

Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. 

Beat. And a good soldier to a lady: but 
what is he to a lord? 

Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; 
stuffed with all honourable virtues. 

Beat. It is so, indeed: he is no less than a 
stuffed man : but for the stuffing, — well, we are 
all mortal. 

Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece : 
there is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior 
Benedick and her: they never meet but there 
is a skirmish of wit between them. 

Beat. Alas, he gets nothing by that. In 
our last conflict four of his five wits went halt- 
ing off, and now is the old man governed with 
one : so that if he have wit enough to keep him- 
self warm, let him bear it for a difference be- 
tween himself and his horse; for it is all the 
wealth that he hath left, to be known a reason- 
able creature. — Who is his companion now? 
He hath every month a new sworn brother. 

Mess. Is it possible ? 

182 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Beat, Very easily possible: he wears his 
faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever 
changes with the next block. 

Mess, I see, lady, the gentleman Is not in 
your books. 

Beat. No: an he were I would burn my 
study. . . . 

Don Pedro enters, attended by his brother 
Don Juan, Claudio, Benedick, and others. 
The prince Is welcomed by Leonato, and a play 
of wit begins between Beatrice and Benedick. 

Beat, I wonder that you will still be talk- 
ing, Signior Benedick; nobody marks you. 

Bene, What, my dear lady Disdain I are 
you yet living? 

Beat. Is it possible disdain should die while 
she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior 
Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to 
disdain if you come in her presence. 

Bene, Then is courtesy a turn-coat. — But It 
is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you ex- 
cepted: and I would I could find in my heart 
that I had not a hard heart: for, truly, I love 
none. 

Beat, A dear happiness to women; they 
would else have been troubled with a pernicious 
suitor. I thank God, and my cold blood, I am 
of your humour for that : I had rather hear my 

183 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves 
me. 

Bene. God keep your ladyship still In that 
mind! so some gentleman or other shall 'scape 
a predestinate scratched face. 

Beat, Scratching could not make It worse 
an 'twere such a face as yours were. 

Bene, Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. 

Beat, A bird of my tongue is better than a 
beast of yours. 

Bene, I would my horse had the speed of 
your tongue, and so good a continuer. But 
keep your way o God's name; I have done. 

Beat, You always end with a jade's trick; I 
know you of old. 

After Leonato and the ladles go out, Claudio 
confesses to Benedick and Don Pedro that he Is 
in love with Hero. Benedick declares her 
cousin, Beatrice, *' exceeds.her as much In beauty 
as the first of May doth the last of December," 
but proceeds to scoff at marriage, vowing that 
he will always remain a bachelor. 

When Benedick leaves them, it Is arranged 
between Don Pedro and ClaudIo that at the 
revels to come in the evening the prince. In some 
disguise, shall tell Hero he is ClaudIo, and make 
love to her in his behalf. The prince Is over- 
heard and misunderstood by a servant, and 

184 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

word Is brought to Leonato that Don Pedro is 
in love with Hero and means to acknowledge it 
to her immediately. In a later scene, for 
Leonato, Hero and Beatrice, the following col- 
loquy occurs : 

Leon, Well, niece, I hope to see you one 
day fitted with a husband. 

Beat, Not till God make men of some 
other metal than earth. Would it not grieve 
a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of 
valiant dust! to make an account of her life to 
a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I'll none: 
Adam's sons are my brethren ; and, truly, I hold 
it a sin to match In my kindred. 

Leon. Daughter, remember what I told 
you: if the prince do solicit you in that kind, 
you know your answer. 

Beat, The fault will be in the music, ^ ^"^ 
cousin, if you be not wooed in good time : if the 
prince be too important, tell him there is meas- 
ure in everything, and so dance out the answer. 
For, hear me. Hero, wooing, wedding, and re- 
penting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a 
cInque-pace : the first suit is hot and hasty, like a 
Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, 
mannerly modest as a measure, full of state and 
ancientry; and then comes repentance, and, 
with his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace 
faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. 

185 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Leon, Cousin, you apprehend passing 
shrewdly. 

Beat, I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a 
church by daylight. 

Don Pedro later tells Claudlo that he has 
wooed and won Hero In Claudio's name, and 
obtained her father's consent. And Beatrice 
jesting over the matter, says: 

I may sit In a corner and cry heigh-ho! for 
a husband. 

D, Pedro, Lady Beatrice, I will get you 
one. 

Beat, I would rather have one of your 
father's getting. Hath your grace ne'er a 
brother like you? Your father got excellent 
husbands, If a maid could come by them. 

D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady? 

Beat, No, my lord, unless I might have 
another for v/orking-days ; your grace Is too 
costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your 
grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth 
and no matter. 

Z)'. Pedro, Your silence most offends me, 
and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of 
question, you were born In a merry hour. 

A merry plot Is then contrived by Don Pedro, 
to bring about a match between Benedick and 

i86 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Beatrice; that he shall be made to believe she 
is very much In love with him, despite her rail- 
lery, and that she be played upon In like fashion, 
to be persuaded that Benedick Is deeply enam- 
oured of her. The scheme Is first applied in a 
garden, where Benedick soliloquises, thus: 

I do much wonder that one man, seeing how 
much another man Is a fool when he dedicates 
his behaviours to love, will, after he hath 
laughed at such shallow follies In others, be- 
come the argument of his own scorn by falling 
in love. And such a man is Claudlo. I have 
known when there was no music with him but 
the drum and fife; and now had he rather hear 
the tabor and the pipe : I have known when he 
would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good 
armour; and now will he He ten nights awake 
carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was 
wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an 
honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned 
orthographer ; his words are a very fantastical 
banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I 
be so converted, and see with these eyes? I 
cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn but 
Love may transform me to an oyster; but I'll 
take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster 
of me he shall never make me such a fool. One 
woman is fair; yet I am well: another is wise; 
yet I am well: another virtuous; yet I am well: 

187 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

but till all graces be in one woman, one woman 
shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, 
that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or 
I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look 
on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or 
not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excel- 
lent musician, and her |^air shall be of what 
colour It please God. Ha! the prince and 
Monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbour. 

[^Withdraws. 

Don Pedro, Claudio ("Monsieur Love"), 
Leonato and Balthazar enter. Balthazar sings : 

I. 

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; 

Men were deceivers ever; 
One foot in sea and one on shore, 
To one thing constant never; 
Then sigh not so, 
But let them go, 
And be you blithe and bonny; 
Converting all your sounds of woe 
Into, Hey, nonny, nonny. 

II. 

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo 

Of dumps so dull and heavy; 
The fraud of men was ever so 

Since summer first was leavy. 
Then sigh not so, &c. 

The singer departs, and the others proceed 
with their sport of beguiling Benedick, having 
noted his hiding in the arbour. 

i88 



WIT AND HUMOUR 



D. Pedro, Come hither, Leonato. What 
was It you told me to-day, — that your niece 
Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? 

Claud. ... I did never think that lady 
would have loved any man. 

Leon, No, nor I neither; but most wonder- 
ful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, 
whom she hath in all outward behaviours 
seemed ever to abhor. 

Bene, Is't possible? Sits the wind In that 
corner ? \^Aside, 

They go on In the same fashion, making it 
appear to Benedick that Beatrice Is wildly in 
love with him but too proud to disclose to him 
her passion. They then go out, having ar- 
ranged to cause a like net to be spread for 
Beatrice, and to have her call him to dinner. 

Benedick advances from the arbour. 

Bene, This can be no trick. The confer- 
ence was sadly borne. — They have the truth 
of this from Hero. They seem to pity the 
lady; It seems her affections have their full bent. 
Love me! why, It must be requited. I hear 
how I am censured : they say I will bear myself 
proudly if I perceive the love come from her; 
they say, too, that she will rather die than give 
any sign of affection. — I did never think to 

189 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

marry — I must not seem proud. — Happy are 
they that hear their detractions and can put 
them to mending. They say the lady is fair; 
'tis a truth, I can bear them witness: and vir- 
tuous — 'tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, 
but for loving me. — By my troth. It is no addi- 
tion to her wit; — nor no great argument of 
her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. 
— I may chance have some old quirks and rem- 
nants of wit broken on me because I have railed 
so long against marriage; but doth not the ap- 
petite alter? A man loves the meat In his 
youth that he cannot endure In his age. Shall 
quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of 
the brain awe a man from the career of his 
humour? No: the world must be peopled. 
When I said I would die a bachelor I did not 
think I should live till I were married. — Here 
comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a fair lady: 
I do spy some marks of love in her. 

# 
Enter Beatrice. 

Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you 
come in to dinner. 

Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your 
pains. 

Beat. I took no more pains for those 
thanks than you take pains to thank me; if it 
had been painful I would not have come. 

190 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Bene. You take pleasure, then, in the mes- 
sage? 

Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take 
upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withal. 

— You have no stomach, signior ; fare you well. 

\^Exit. 

Bene, Ha ! Against my will I am sent to 

bid you come to dinner — there's a double 

meaning in that. / took no more pains for 

those thanks than you took pains to thank me 

— that's as much as to say, Any pains that I 
take for you is as easy as thanks. — If I do not 
take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love 
her, I am a Jew : I will go get her picture. 

\^Exit. 

A similar garden scene ensues, where Beatrice, 
hidden in a bower, listens while Hero tells two 
gentlewomen how greatly Benedick dotes upon 
her cousin, and they extol him to the skies. 
One of them remarks that it were not good for 
Beatrice to know of his love, lest she make sport 
of It, and Hero answers : 

Why, you speak truth: I never yet saw man, 
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely 

featured. 
But she would spell him backward: If fair 

faced. 
She'd swear the gentleman should be her sister, 

191 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic, 

Made a foul blot; If tall, a lance ill-headed; 

If low, an agate very vilely cut: 

If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; 

If silent, why, a block moved with none. 

So turns she every man the wrong side out. 

Beatrice, in concealment, takes the bait greed- 
ily, and when they have retired she advances and 
owns to herself, aloud, her Intention to requite 
Benedick's love, taming her " wild heart " to 
his " loving hand." 

In a subsequent scene Don Pedro, Claudio 
and Leonato amuse themselves with Benedick 
by discussing the question whether he Is in love, 
and he makes a partial admission, remarking: 

Gallants, I am not as I have been. 



Well, every one can master a grief, but he 
that has it. 

They continue to jest at his expense : 

Claud. If he be not In love with some 
woman there Is no beheving old signs: he 
brushes his hat o' mornings: what should that 
bode? 

D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the 
barber's? 

192 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been 
seen with him; and the old ornament of his 
cheek hath ah'eady stuffed tennis-balls. 

Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he 
did, by the loss of a beard. 

D. Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with civet. 
Can you smell him out by that? 

Claud. That's as much as to say the sweet 
youth's in love. 

D. Pedro. The greatest note of It Is his 
melancholy. 

Claud. And when was he wont to wash his 
face? 

D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for 
the which I hear what they say of him. 

Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit; which Is 
now crept into a lute-string, and now governed 
by stops. 

D. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale 
for him : conclude, conclude, he is in love. 

Don John, out of malice and envy toward 
Claudio, sets in operation a wicked plot, con- 
trived by his follower, Borachio, to defeat the 
approaching marriage of Hero. Borachio is In 
the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentle- 
woman to Hero, and It is arranged that In the 
absence of Flero from her chamber, on the even- 
ing before the wedding, Margaret shall take 

193 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Hero's place, admit Borachio, and answer to the 
name of her mistress. 

This scheme being fully arranged, Don John 
denounces Hero as disloyal, before Don Pedro 
and Claudio, and offers to prove the charge by 
showing them her chamber window entered. 
Claudio becomes distrustful, and declares that 
if he should see reason why he should not marry 
he would shame her before the whole congre- 
gation gathered to witness the wedding on the 
morrow. And Don Pedro says he will join 
with Claudio to disgrace her, should there be 
cause. 

The next scene in the conspiracy introduces 
Dogberry, one of the most amusing of all 
Shakespeare's comic roles. Although desti- 
tute of either wit or humour, and the very per- 
sonification ot dulness, pretentious ignorance 
and stupidity — in short, a solemn ass — this 
constable is a source of infinite diversion to the 
discriminating reader, and has furnished the 
stage one of its most noted and most popular 
characters. His blundering misuse of words, 
in his efforts to impress his hearers with his 
wisdom and learning, his egregious vanity and 
conceit, his fatuous reasoning and his pride of 

194 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

office and authority — even his very tedlous- 
ness — unite to make a personage whose very 
name excites a smile. The dramatist's mar- 
vellous powers of characterisation are strikingly 
exhibited in this remarkable creation. There 
is nothing equal to Dogberry in this kind, but 
Constable Elbow, in " Measure for Measure," 
is of the same or a similar type. 

The scene is a street by night. Enter Dog- 
berry and Verges, with the men composing the 
watch. 

Dogh, Are you good men and true? 

Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they 
should suffer salvation, body and soul. 

Dogb. Nay, that were a punishment too 
good for them, if they should have any al- 
legiance in them, being chosen for the prince's 
watch. 

Ferg. Well, give them their charge, neigh- 
bour Dogberry. 

Dogb, First, who think you the most 
desertless man to be constable? 

I Watch, Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George 
Seacoal; for they can write and read. 

Dogb. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal: 
God hath blessed you with a good name : to be 
a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune : but 
to write and read comes by nature. 

195 



S H A K E S P E A R E ' S 

2 Watch. Both which, master constable, — 

Dogh, You have; I knew it would be your 
answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give 
God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for 
your writing and reading, let that appear when 
there is no need of such vanity. You are 
thought here to be the most senseless and fit 
man for the constable of the watch; therefore 
bear you the lantern. This is your charge; 
— you shall comprehend all vagrom men; 
you are to bid any man stand, in the princess 
name. 

2 Watch, How if 'a will not stand? 

Dogb. Why, then, take no note of him, but 
let him go; and presently call the rest of the 
watch together, and thank God you are rid of 
a knave. 

Verg. If he will not stand when he is bid- 
den, he is none of the prince's subjects. 

Dogb, True, and they are to meddle with 
none but the prince's subjects. — You shall also 
make no noise in the streets; for for the watch 
to babble and talk is most tolerable and not to 
be endured. 

2 Watch, We will rather sleep than talk; 
we know what belongs to a watch. 

Dogb. Why, you speak like an ancient and 
most quiet watchman; for I cannot see how 
sleeping should offend: only, have a care that 
your bills be not stolen. — Well, you are to call 

196 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

at all the ale-houses, and bid them that are 
drunk get them to bed. 

2 Watch, How If they will not? 

Dogb, Why, then, let them alone till they 
are sober; if they make you not then the better 
answer, you may say they are not the men you 
took them for. 

2 Watch. Well, sir. 

Dogb. If you meet a thief, you may sus- 
pect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true 
man: and, for such kind of men, the less you 
meddle or make with them, why, the more Is 
your honesty. 

2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, 
shall we not lay hands on him ? 

Dogb. Truly, by your office you may; but I 
think they that touch pitch will be defiled: the 
most peaceable way for you, if you do take a 
thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and 
steal out of your company. 

Ferg. You have been always called a merci- 
ful man, partner. 

Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by 
my will; much more a man who hath any hon- 
esty in him. 

Ferg. If you hear a child cry In the night 
you must call to the nurse and bid her still it. 

2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and 
will not hear us? 

Dogb. Why, then, depart in peace, and let 

197 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

the child wake her with crying: for the ewe 
that will not hear her lamb when it baas will 
never answer a calf when he bleats. 

Verg. 'Tis very true. 

Dogh. This is the end of the charge. You, 
constable, are to present the prince's own per- 
son; if you meet the prince in the night you 
may stay him. 

Verg. Nay, by'r lady, that I think 'a can- 
not. 

Dogh. Five shillings to one on't, with any 
man that knows the statues, he may stay him : 
marry, not without the prince be willing: for, 
indeed, the watch ought to offend no man; and 
it is an offence to stay a man against his will. 

Verg. By'r lady, I think It be so. 

Dogb. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, masters, good 
night: an there be any matter of weight chances, 
call up me: keep your fellows' counsels and 
your own, and good night. — Come, neighbour. 

2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our 
charge : let us go sit here upon the church-bench 
till two, and then all to bed. 

Dogb. One word more, honest neighbours : 
I pray you, watch about SIgnlor Leonato's 
door; for the wedding being there to-morrow, 
there is a great coil to-night. Adieu, be vigi- 
lant, I beseech you. 

Dogberry and Verges go their ways, and 
Borachio and Conrade come on the scene. The 

198 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

dialogue Is aptly suggestive of darkness, the 
better to indicate that the watchmen may over- 
hear the two villains without being seen. 

Bora, What, Conrade ! — 

Watch, Peace, stir not. \^Aside. 

Bora, Conrade, I say! 

Con, Here, man, I am at thy elbow. 

Bora, Mass, and my elbow itched; I 
thought there would a scab follow. 

Con, I will owe thee an answer for that; 
and now forward with thy tale. 

Bora. Stand thee close then under this pent- 
house, for it drizzles rain; and I will, like a 
true drunkard, utter all to thee. 

fVatch, \_Aside.^ Some treason, rrfasters; 
yet stand close. 

Bora, Therefore know, I have earned of 
Don John a thousand ducats. 

Con, Is it possible that any villainy should 
be so dear? 

Bora, Thou shouldst rather ask If it were 
possible any villainy should be so rich ; for when 
rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones 
may make what price they will. 

Con, I wonder at it. 

Bora, That shows thou art unconfirmed. 
Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or 
a hat, or a cloak is nothing to a man. 

Con, Yes, It Is apparel. 

199 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Bora, I mean the fashron. 

Con, Yes, the fashion is the fashion. 

Bora, Tush ! I may as well say the fool's 
the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed 
thief this fashion is? 

Watch. I know that Deformed; 'a has 
been a vile thief this seven year; 'a goes up and 
down like a gentleman : I remember his name. 

Bora, Didst thou not hear somebody? 

Con. No; 'twas the vane on the house. 

Bora, Seest thou not, I say, what a de- 
formed thief this fashion is? how giddily he 
turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen 
and five-and-thirty ? sometimes fashioning them 
like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting; 
sometimes like god Bel's priests in the old 
church window; sometimes like the shaven 
Hercules In the smirched worm-eaten tapes- 
try. . . . 

Con, All this I see; and see that the fashion 
wears out more apparel than the man. But art 
not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, 
that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into tell- 
ing me of the fashion? 

Bora. Not so neither; but know that I have 
to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's 
gentlewoman, by the name of Hero; she leans 
me out at her mistress's chamber-window, bids 
me a thousand times good night, — I tell this 
tale vilely : — I should first tell thee, how the 

200 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

prince, Claudlo, and my master, planted and 
placed and possessed by my master Don John, 
saw afar oft In the orchard this amiable en- 
counter. 

Con, And thought they Margaret was 
Hero ? 

Bora. Two of them did, the prince and 
Claudlo; but the devil my master knew she 
was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which 
first possessed them, partly by the dark night, 
which did deceive them, but chiefly by my vil- 
lainy, which did confirm any slander that Don 
John had made away went Claudlo enraged; 
swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, 
next morning at the temple, and there, before 
the whole congregation, shame her with what 
he saw over-night, and send her home again 
without a husband. 

1 Watch. We charge you In the prince's 
name, stand. 

2 Watch. Call up the right master consta- 
ble: we have here recovered the most danger- 
ous piece of lechery that ever was known in the 
commonwealth. 

1 Watch. And one Deformed Is one of 
them; I know him, 'a wears a lock. 

Con. Masters, masters ! 

2 Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed 
forth, I warrant you. 

Con. Masters, — 

201 



SHAKESPEAR E ' S 

I Watch. Never speak; we charge you, let 
us obey you to go with us. 

Bora, We are like to prove a goodly com- 
modity, being taken up of these men's bills. 

Con. A commodity in question, I warrant 
you. Come, we'll obey you. \_Exeunt. 



A Room in Leonato's House. Enter Leo- 
NATO, with Dogberry and Verges. 

Leon. What would you with me, honest 
neighbour? 

Dogb. Marry, sir, I would have some con- 
fidence with you that decerns you nearly. 

Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you see 'tis a 
busy time with me. 

Dogh. Marry, this it is, sir. 

Verg. Yes, in truth It Is, sir. 

Leon. What is it, my good friends? 

Dogh. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a lit- 
tle off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits 
are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire 
they were; but. In faith, honest as the skin be- 
tween his brows. 

Verg. Yes, I thank -God I am as honest as 
^any man living that is an old man and no hon- 
ester than L 

Dogh. Comparisons are odorous: palabras, 
neighbour Verges. 

Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. 

202 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Dogh, It pleases your worship to say so, 
but we are the poor duke's officers: but, truly, 
for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a 
king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all 
of your worship. 

Leon. All thy tediousness on me! ha! 

Dogh, Yea, and 'twere a thousand times 
more than 'tis: for I hear as good exclamation 
on your worship as of any man in the city; and 
though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear 
it. 

Verg. And so am I. 

Leon, I would fain know what you have to 
say. 

Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, ex- 
cepting your worship's presence, have ta'en a 
couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. 

Dogh. A good old man, sir; he will be 
talking; as they say. When the age is in the wit 
is out; God help us! it is a world to see! — 
Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges: — well, 
God's a good man; an two men ride of a horse, 
one must ride behind. — An honest soul, i' 
faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke 
bread: but God is to be worshipped. All men 
are not alike, — alas, good neighbour ! 

Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too 
short of you. 

Dogh. Gifts that God gives. 

Leon. I must leave you. 

203 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Dogh. One word, sir: our watch, sir, have 
indeed comprehended two auspicious persons, 
and we would have them this morning ex- 
amined before your worship. 

Leon, Take their examination yourself, 

and bring it me; I am now in great haste, as it 

may appear unto you. 

Dogb. It shall be suffigance. 

• ••••• 

Dogb. Go, good partner, go, get you to 
Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and ink- 
horn to the gaol: we are now to examination 
these men. 

Verg. And we must do it wisely. 

Dogb. We will spare for no wit, I warrant 
you; here's that [touching his forehead] shall 
drive some of them to a no7i com: only get the 
learned writer to set down our excommunica- 
tion, and meet me at the gaol. 

A prison scene ensues, with Dogberry, 
Verges and Sexton in gowns, and the watch, 
with Conrade and Borachio, prisoners. 

Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared? 

Verg, O, a stool and a cushion for the sex- 
ton! . 

Sexton, Which be the malefactors? 

Dogb, Marry, that am I and my partner : 

Verg. Nay, that's certain; we have the ex- 
hibition to examine. 

204 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Sexton. But which are the offenders that 
are to be examined? let them come before mas- 
ter constable. 

Dogb, Yea, marry, let them come before 
me. — What is your name, friend? 

Bora. Borachio. 

Dogb. Pray write down — Borachio. — 
Yours, sirrah? 

Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and. my name 
Is Conrade. 

Dogb. Write down — master gentleman 
Conrade. — Masters, do you serve God? 

Con. 1 V • I 

D ^ Yea, sir, we hope. 

Bora. * ' ^ 

Dogb. Write down — that they hope they 
serve God: — and write God first; fjor God de- 
fend but God should go before such villains ! — 
Masters, it is proved already that you are little 
better than false knaves; and it will go near to 
be thought so shortly. How answer you for 
yourselves? 

Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 

Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure 
you ; but I will go about with him. — Come you 
hither, sirrah: a word in your ears, sir; I say to 
you, it is thought you are false knaves. 

Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none. 

Dogb. Well, stand aside. — 'Fore God, they 
are both in a tale. Have you writ down — 
that they are none ? 

205 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Sexton. Master constable, you go not the 
way to examine; you must call forth the Watch 
that are their accusers. 

Dogb. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. — 
Let the Watch come forth. — Masters, I charge 
you in the prince's name, accuse these men. 

1 Watch. This man said, sir, that Don 
John, the prince's brother, was a villain. 

Dogb. Write down — Prince John a vil- 
lain. — Why, this is flat perjury, to call a 
prince's brother villain. 

Bora. Master constable, — 

Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace; I do not 
like thy look, I promise thee. 

Sexton. What heard you him say else? 

2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a 
thousand ducats off Don John for accusing the 
Lady Hero wrongfully. 

Dogb. Flat burglary as ever was com- 
mitted. 

Ferg. Yea, by the mass, that It Is. 
Sexton. What else, fellow? 

1 Watch. And that Count Claudlo did 
mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before 
the whole assembly, and not marry her. 

Dogb. O villain! thou wilt be condemned 
Into everlasting redemption for this. 
Sexton. What else? 

2 Watch, This is all. 

Sexton. And this Is more, masters, than 

206 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

you can deny. Prince John Is this morning 
secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner 
accused, in this very manner refused, and upon 
the grief of this suddenly died. — Master con- 
stable, let these men be bound and brought to 
Leonato's; I will go before and show him their 
examination. [^Exit. 

Dogh. Come, let them be opinloned. 

Verg, Let them be in band. 

Con. Off, coxcomb ! 

Dogh. God's my life! where's the sexton? 
let him write down — the prince's officer, cox- 
comb. — Come, bind them. — Thou naughty 
varlet ! 

Con, Away! you are an ass, you are an 
ass. 

Dogh. Dost thou not suspect my place? 
Dost thou not suspect my years ? — O that he 
were here to write me down an ass ! but, mas- 
ters, remember, that I am an ass; though It 
be not written down, yet forget not that I am 
an ass. — No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, 
as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. 
I am a wise fellow; and, which Is more, an 
officer; and, which Is more, a householder; and, 
which Is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any 
Is In Messina : and one that knows the law, go 
to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fel- 
low that hath had losses ; and one that hath two 
gowns, and everything handsome about him. 

207 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

— Bring him away. O that I had been writ 
down an ass ! [Exeunt, 

At the altar, when the marriage ceremony to 
unite Hero and Claudio has begun, and the 
friar asks If there be any impediment, Claudio 
denounces her as unchaste. And Don Pedro 
relates that he, his brother John and Claudio 
had seen her talk with a ruffian at her chamber 
window, who had since confessed to a long 
course of infamous intimacy with her. 

At this recital Hero falls in a swoon, and 
her father, believing her guilty, cries shame 
upon her. Claudio's charges are confirmed by 
Don John as well as Don Pedro, and the three 
leave the church. 

The friar pleads for Hero with her father, 
declaring his belief in her innocence, and sug- 
gesting that she be kept in seclusion until It can 
be established, meanwhile giving out that she 
Is dead and has been privately burled. This 
course Is followed. 

Beatrice, convinced that her cousin has been 
slandered, avows to Benedick her love for him, 
and persuades him to challenge Claudio, which 
he does. While Don Pedro and Claudio are 
discussing the matter, come Dogberry, Verges 

208 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

and the watch, with Conrade and Borachio. 
Don Pedro recognises the prisoners and asks 
what offences they have done. Dogberry an- 
swers : 

Marry, sir, they have committed false re- 
port; moreover, they have spoken untruths; 
secondarily, they are slanders ; sixth and lastly, 
they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have veri- 
fied unjust things : and, to conclude, they are 
lying knaves. 

The prince, remarking that " this learned 
constable is too cunning to be understood," asks 
the prisoners the cause of their arrest. Bo- 
rachio makes a full confession of the deception 
he had practised at the instance of Don John, 
and tells how the watchmen had overheard the 
narration of It to Conrade. Dogberry then 
says: 

Come, bring away the plaintiffs; by this time 
our sexton hath reformed SIgnlor Leonato of 
the matter: and, masters, do not forget to 
specify, when time and place shall serve, that 
I am an ass. 

Leonato enters, and, Borachlo's confession 
being made known to him, the princes Implore 
his pardon. Leonato prays them to make 

209 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

known to all Messina that his daughter died 
innocent, and says his brother Antonio has a 
daughter almost a copy of Hero, and that if 
Claudio will marry her it will make amends. 
To this Claudio consents. 

Dogh. Moreover, sir, — which, indeed, is 
not under white and black, — this plaintiff here, 
the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let 
it be remembered in his punishment. And 
also, the Watch heard them talk of one De- 
formed : they say he wears a key in his ear and 
a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in 
God's name; the which he hath used so long, 
and never paid, that now men grow hard- 
hearted, and will lend nothing for God's sake: 
pray you, examine him upon that point. 

Leon, I thank thee for thy care and honest 
pains. 

Dogh. Your worship speaks like a most 
thankful and reverend youth, and I praise God 
for you. 

Leon. There's for thy pains. 

Dogb. God save the foundation! 

Leon. Go; I discharge thee of thy prisoner, 
and I thank thee. 

Dogh. I leave an arrant knave with your 
worship; which I beseech your worship to cor- 
rect yourself, for the example of others. God 
keep your worship; I wish your worship well; 

2IO 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

God restore you to health; I humbly give you 
leave to depart; and if a merry meeting may be 
wished, God prohibit it. — Come, neighbour. 

Following this scene there is a little en- 
counter of wit between Beatrice and Benedick, 
in which these passages occur : 

Beat, . . . There's not one wise man 
among twenty that will praise himself. 

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, 
that lived in the time of good neighbours : if a 
man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere 
he dies, he shall live no longer in monument 
than the bell rings and the widow weeps. 

Beat, And how long is that, think you? 

Bene. Question : — why, an hour in clam- 
our, and a quarter in rheum: therefore it is 
most expedient for the wise (if Don Worm, 
his conscience, find no impediment to the con- 
traryj to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as 
I am to myself. 



Bene. Do not you love me? 
Beat. No, no more than reason. 

Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the prince, 
and Claudio 
Have been deceived; for they swore you did. 
Beat\ Do not you love me? 

211 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Bene, No, no more than reason. 

Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and 

Ursula, 

Are much deceived; for they did swear you did. 

Bene. They swore that you were almost 

sick for me. 
Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh 

dead for me. 
Bene. 'TIs no such matter. — Then you do 

not love me? 
Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recom- 
pense. 
Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the 

gentleman. 
Claud. And Fll be sworn upon 't that he 
loves her; 
For here's a paper written in his hand — 
A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, 
Fashion'd to Beatrice. 

Hero. And here's another, 

Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her 

pocket. 
Containing her affection unto Benedick. 

Bene. A miracle ! — here's our own hands 
against our hearts! — Come, I will have thee; 
but, by this light I take thee for pity. 

Beat. I would not deny you ; — but, by 
this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; 
and partly to save your life, for I was told you 
were in a consumption. 

212 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Bene. Peace; I will stop your mouth. 

{^Kissing her, 

D, Pedro, How dost thou, Benedick the 
married man? 

Bene, I'll tell thee what, prince; a college 
of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my hu- 
mour. Dost thou think I care for a satire, or 
an epigram? No: if a man will be beaten 
with brains, he shall wear nothing handsome 
about him. In brief, since I do purpose to 
marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that 
the world can say against it; and therefore 
never flout at me for what I have said against 
it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my con- 
clusion,. 

The closing scene of the play is a room in 
Leonato's house, where Claudio comes pre- 
pared to fulfil his promise to marry the daugh- 
ter of Antonio, and joys to find her the real 
Hero. Sa they are wed, and also Beatrice and 
Benedick. 



The resemblance between Dogberry and 
Constable Elbow in their misuse of words is 
indicated by the following extract from " Meas- 
ure for Measure." Elbow comes before Duke 
Angelo with certain persons under arrest. 

213 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Ang. How now, sir! What's your name? 
and what's the matter? 

Elh. If It please your honour, I am the 
poor duke's constable, and my name is Elbow; 
I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here 
before your good honour two notorious bene- 
factors. 

Ang, Benefactors! Well; what benefac- 
tors are they? are they not malefactors? 

Elb. If It please your honour, I know not 
well what they are: but precise villains they 
are, that I am sure of; and void of all profana- 
tion In the world that good Christians ought to 
have. 



214 



AS YOU LIKE IT 

One of the most sparkling of Skakespeare's 
comedies is *' As You Like It," which abounds 
in lively wit and delightful poetic fancy. Much 
of its dialogue is of the most animated sort. 
In Rosalind the poet created one of the most 
charming of all his female characters. Her 
jests and raillery flow from a seemingly Inex- 
haustible fount of gaiety and sprightly repartee, 
and yet at heart she is tender and romantic. 

Contrasted with the effervescent mirth of 
this fascinating heroine Is the cynical wit and 
philosophy of " the melancholy Jaques " and 
the quizzical humour of Touchstone, the court 
fool. 

Romantic love Is the motive of most of the 
action, but it Is treated In a light and airy way, 
and made the theme of much merriment. 
There is little plot. The principal scenes are 
laid in the forest of Arden, to which the 
rightful Duke, banished by Frederick, his 
usurping younger brother, has retired, accom^ 
panied by his devoted adherents. His daugh- 

215 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

ter Rosalind has been suffered to remain at the 
court of Frederick because of her attachment 
for Celia, the usurper's daughter,' but Is in turn 
banished, without cause and on pain of death. 
Rosalind dons man's attire, the better to avoid 
molestation on her journey, and repairs to the 
forest of Arden, accompanied by the devoted 
Celia and the faithful Touchstone. Arrived at 
their destination, they enter upon a pastoral 
life. 

Orlando, son of Sir Roland de Bois, is 
cruelly and unjustly treated by his elder brother 
Oliver, and deprived of his Inheritance. Prior 
to the exile of Rosalind, Orlando engages in a 
wrestling match before Duke Frederick, and 
defeats Charles, the Duke's wrestler, whom 
Oliver secretly had prompted to maim or kill 
Orlando. There is love at first sight between 
Orlando and Rosalind, who with Celia views 
the wrestling and encourages him to do his best, 
after her entreaties have failed to dissuade him 
from the venture. After his victory she gives 
him a chain from her neck and says to him : 

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
More than your enemies. 

216 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Orlando, dumb with passion, fails to respond, 
which gives point to this subsequent dialogue: 

CeL Why, cousin ; why, Rosalind ; — Cu- 
pid have mercy! — Not a word? 

Ros, Not one to throw at a dog. 

CeL No, thy words are too precious to be 
cast away upon curs, throw some of them at 
me; come, lame me with reasons. 

Ros, Then there were two cousins laid up; 
when the one should be lamed with reasons and 
the other mad without any. 

CeL But Is all this for your father? 

Ros, No, some of It Is for my father's 
child. O, how full of briers is this working- 
day world! 

CeL They are but burs, cousin, thrown 
upon thee In holiday foolery; if we walk not In 
the trodden paths our very petticoats will catch 
them. 

Ros, I could shake them off my coat: these 
burs are In my heart. 

CeL Hem them away. 

Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem and 
have him. 

CeL Come, come, wrestle with thy affec- 
tions. 

Ros. O, they take the part of a better 
wrestler than myself. 

CeL O, a good wish upon you! you will 
try in time, in despite of a fall. . . . 

217 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

After the wrestling, Orlando returns to his 
brother's house, but is warned by Adam, an 
aged servitor, not to venture in, as Oliver means 
to kill him. The faithful Adam gives him 500 
crowns, which is all his store, and together they 
set out to " light upon some settled low con- 
tent." They reach the forest of Arden, spent 
with hunger and fatigue, and are given succour 
by the banished Duke and his companions. 

Meanwhile Rosalind, in masculine garb, and 
Celia, dressed like a shepherdess, with Touch- 
stone, have entered the forest and are greatly 
tired. 

Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! 

Touch. I care not for my spirits if my legs 
were not weary. 

Ros, I could find in my heart to disgrace 
my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman: 
but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doub- 
let and hose ought to show Itself courageous to 
petticoat: therefore, courage, good Aliena. 

CeL I pray you, bear with me ; I can go no 
farther. 

Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with 
you than bear you : yet I should bear no cross 
if I did bear you; for, I think, you have no 
money in your purse. 

218 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

To them come Corin and Silvlus, shepherds, 
and the princesses arrange with CorIn for the 
purchase of a cottage, pasture and sheep, re- 
taining him in their service. 

Another part of the Forest. 

Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others of the ban- 
ished Duke's train, 

SONG. 

Ami. Under the greenwood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

Jaq, More, more, I pr'ythee, more. 

Ami. It will make you melancholy. Mon- 
sieur Jaques. 

Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. 
I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel 
sucks eggs. More, I pr'ythee, more. 

• ••••• 

SONG. 

Who doth ambition shun, \_All together here. 

And loves to live i' the sun, 

Seeking the food he eats. 

And pleas'd with what he gets. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 

Here shall he see 

No enemy. 
But winter and rough weather. 

219 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that 
I made yesterday In despite of my Invention. 
Ami. And I'll sing it. 
Jaq. Thus It goes : 

If it do come to pass 
That any man turn ass, 
Leaving his wealth and ease 
A stubborn will to please, 

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; 
Here shall he see 
Gross fools as he, 

An if he will come to Ami. 

Ami, What's that ducdame? 
Jaq. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools 
Into a circle. 

The scene changes to another part of the 
forest, where a table Is set with food. The 
banished duke, Amiens and others appear, and 
as Jaques enters the duke accosts him : 

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a 
life Is this, 

That your poor friends must woo your com- 
pany? 

What! you look merrily. 

Jaq. A fool, a fool ! — I met a fool V the 
forest, 

A motley fool ; — a miserable world ! — 

As I do live by food, I met a fool, 

Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, 

220 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

And ralPd on Lady Fortune In good terms, 
In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 
Good-morrow, fool, quoth I: No, sir, quoth he, 
Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me for- 
tune. 
And then he drew a dial from his poke, 
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 
Says very wisely, It is ten o'clock : 
Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world 

wags, 
*Tis but an hour ago since it was nine; 
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; 
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe. 
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; 
And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear 
The motley fool thus moral on the time. 
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer. 
That fools should be so deep contemplative; 
And I did laugh, sans Intermission, 
An hour by his dial. — O noble fool! 
A worthy fool ! — Motley's the only wear. 
Duke S. What fool is this? 
Jaq. O worthy fool ! — One that hath been 
a courtier, 
And says, if ladles be but young and fair. 
They have the gift to know it: and in his 

brain, — 
Which Is as dry as the remainder biscuit 
After a voyage, — he hath strange places 
cramm'd 

221 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

With observation, the which he vents 

In mangled forms. — O that I were a fool ! 

I am ambitious for a motley coat. 

• ••••• 

All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players ; 
They have their exits and their entrances; 
And one man in his time plays many parts. 
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, 
Mewling and puking In the nurse's arms; 
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover. 
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier. 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard. 
Jealous In honour, sudden and quick in quarrel. 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the 

justice. 
In fair round belly with good capon lln'd. 
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances; 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon. 
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; 
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles In his sound. Last scene of all, 

222 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness and mere oblivion; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 

• ••••• 

Another part of the Forest. 
Enter Corin and Touchstone. 

Cor. And how like you this shepherd's life. 
Master Touchstone ? 

Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself. 
It Is a good life; but in respect that it is a shep- 
herd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is 
solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that 
it is private. It is a very vile life. Now in re- 
spect it is in the fields, It pleaseth me well; but 
in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As 
it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour 
well; but as there is no more plenty in it. It goes 
much against my stomach. Hast any philoso- 
phy in thee, shepherd? 

Cor. No more but that I know the more 
one sickens the worse at ease he is ; and that he 
that wants money, means, and content, is with- 
out three good friends; that the property of 
rain Is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pas- 
ture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause 
of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath 
learned no wit by nature nor art may complain 
of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kin- 
dred. 

223 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Touch, Such a one is a natural philosopher. 
Wast ever in court, shepherd? 

Cor, No, truly. 

Touch, Then thou art damned. 

Cor, Nay, I hope, — 

Touch. Truly, thou art damned; like an ill- 
roasted egg, all on one side. 

Cor, For not being at court? Your reason. 

Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court 
thou never saw'st good manners; if thou never 
saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be 
wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is dam- 
nation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd. 

Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone: those that 
are good manners at the court are as ridiculous 
in the country as the behaviour of the country 
is most mockable at the court. You told me 
you salute not at the court, but you kiss your 
hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if cour- 
tiers were shepherds. 

Rosalind enters, reading verses in her praise, 
written upon a paper by Orlando, which she 
had found on a tree. After her comes Celia, 
also reading verses to Rosalind, and they con- 
verse, Corin and Touchstone retiring: 

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses? 

Ros. O yes, I heard them all, and more 
too; for some of them had in them more feet 
than the verses would bear. 

224 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Cel. That's no matter; the feet might bear 
the verses. 

Ros, Ay, but the feet were lame, and could 
not bear themselves without the verse, and 
therefore stood lamely in the verse. 

CeL But didst thou hear without wonder- 
ing how thy name should be hanged and carved 
upon these trees? 

Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the 
wonder before you came ; for look here what I 
found on a palm tree: I was never so be- 
rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an 
Irish rat, which I can hardly remember. 

Cel. Trow you who hath done this ? 

Ros. Is it a man? 

CeL . And a chain, that you once wore, about 
his neck. Change you colour ? 

Ros. I pray thee, who? 

Cel. O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for 
friends to meet; but mountains may be removed 
with earthquakes, and so encounter. 

Ros. Nay, but who is it? 

Cel. Is it possible? 

Ros. Nay, Ipr'ythee now, with most peti- 
tionary vehemence, tell me who it is. 

Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most 
wonderful wonderful ! and yet again wonderful, 
and after that, out of all whooping! 

Ros. Good my complexion ! dost thou think, 
though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a 

225 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch 
of delay more is a South-sea of discovery. I 
pr'ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak 
apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that 
thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy 
mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed 
bottle; either too much at once or none at all. 
I pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that 
I may drink thy tidings. 

• •••»• 

Is he of God's making? What manner of 
man ? Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth 
a beard? 

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. 

Ros. Why, God will send more if the man 
will be thankful : let me stay the growth of his 
beard if thou delay me not the knowledge of 
his chin. 

Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripped up 
the wrestler's heels and your heart both in an 
Instant. 

Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking: 
speak sad brow and true maid. 

Cel. r faith, coz, 'tis he. 

Ros. Orlando? 

Cel. Orlando. 

Ros. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my 
doublet and hose ? — What did he when thou 
saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he? 
Wherein went he? What makes he here? 

226 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Did he ask for me? Where remains he? 
How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou 
see him again? Answer me in one word. 

Cel, You must borrow me Gargantua's 
mouth first : 'tis a word too great for any mouth 
of this age's size. To say ay and no to these 
particulars is more than to answer in a cate- 
chism. 

Ros, But doth he know that I am In this 
forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as 
freshly as he did the day he wrestled? 

CeL It is as easy to count atomies as to re- 
solve the propositions of a lover: — but take a 
taste of my finding him, and relish it with good 
observance. I found him under a tree, like a 
dropped acorn. 

Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, 
when it drops forth such fruit. 

Cel. Give me audience, good madam. 

Ros. Proceed. 

Cel. There lay he, stretched along like a 
wounded knight. 

Ros. Though It be pity to see such a sight, 
It well becomes the ground. 

Cel. Cry, holla ! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee ; 
It curvets unseasonably. He was furnished 
like a hunter. 

Ros. O, ominous ! he comes to kill my heart. 

Cel. I would sing my song without a bur- 
den: thou bring'st me out of tune. 

227 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Ros, Do you not know I am a woman? 
when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. 

CeL You bring me out. — Soft ! comes he 
not here? 

Ros. 'TIs he: slink by, and note him. 

[Celia and Rosalind retire. 



Enter Orlando and Jaques. 

Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, 
good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. 

Orl. And so had I ; but yet, for fashion's 
sake, I thank you too for your society. 

Jaq. God be with you : let's meet as little as 
we can. 

Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers. 

Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with 
writing love-songs In their barks. 

Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses 
with reading them Ill-favouredly. 

Jaq. Rosalind Is your love's name? 

Orl. Yes, just. 

Jaq. I do not like her name. 

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you 
when she was christened. 

Jaq. What stature Is she of? 

Orl. Just as high as my heart. 

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have 
you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, 
and conned them out of rings? 

228 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

OrL Not so; but I answer you right painted 
cloth, from whence you have studied your ques- 
tions. 

Jaq, You have a nimble wit: I think it was 
made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down 
with me? and we two will rail against our mis- 
tress the world, and all our misery. 

Orl. I will chide no breather in the world 
but myself, against whom I know most faults. 

Jaq, The worst fault you have is to be in 
love. 

Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your 
best virtue. I am weary of you. 

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool 
when I found you. 

Orl. He is drowned in the brook; look but 
in, and you shall see him. 

Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure. 

Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a 
cipher. 

Jaq. ril tarry no longer with you : farewell, 
good Signior Love. 

Orl. I am glad of your departure: adieu, 
good Monsieur Melancholy. 

\^xit Jaq. — Cel. and Ros. come forward. 

Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lac- 
quey, and under that habit play the knave with 
him. — Do you hear, forester? 

Orl. Very well: what would you? 

Ros. I pray you, what is 't o'clock? 

229 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

OrL You should ask me what time o' day; 
there's no clock in the forest. 

Ros. Then there's no true lover in the for- 
est, else sighing every minute and groaning 
every hour would detect the lazy foot of time 
as well as a clock. 

Orl. And why not the swift foot of time? 
had not that been as proper? 

Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in 
divers paces with divers persons. I will tell 
you who time ambles withal, who time trots 
withal, who time gallops withal, and who he 
stands still withal. 

OrL I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal? 

Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young 
maid between the contract of her marriage and 
the day it is solemnized; if the interim be but a 
se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that It seems 
the length of seven years. 

Orl. Who ambles time withal? 

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin and a 
rich man that hath not the gout: for the one 
sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the 
other lives merrily, because he feels no pain; 
the one lacking the burden af lean and waste- 
ful learning; the other knowing no burden of 
heavy tedious penury. These time ambles 
withal. 

Orl. Who doth he gallop withal? 

Ros. With a thief to the gallows; for 

230 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks 
himself too soon there. 

OrL Who stays it still withal? 

Ros, With lawyers in the vacation; for they 
sleep between term and term, and then they per- 
ceive not how time moves. 

OrL Where dwell you, pretty youth? 

Ros, With this shepherdess, my sister; here 
in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a 
petticoat. 

OrL Are you native of this place? 

Ros. As the coney, that you see dwell where 
she is kindled. 

OrL Your accent is something finer than 
you could purchase in so removed a dwelling. 

Ros, I have been told so of many: but in- 
deed an old religious uncle of mine taught me 
to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; 
one that knew courtship too well, for there he 
fell in love. I have heard him read many lec- 
tures against it; and I thank God I am not a 
woman, to be touched with so many giddy of- 
fences as he hath generally taxed their whole 
sex withal. 

OrL Can you remember any of the prin- 
cipal evils that he laid to the charge of women? 

Ros. There were none principal; they were 
all like one another as halfpence are; every one 
fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault 
came to match it. 

231 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

\ 

Orl, I pr'ythee, recount some of them. 

Ros. No; I will not cast away my physic 
but on those that are sick. There is a man 
haunts the forest that abuses our young plants 
with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs 
odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles; 
all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: 
if I could meet that fancymonger I would give 
him some good counsel, for he seems to have 
the quotidian of love upon him. 

Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked : I pray 
you, tell me your remedy. 

Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks 
upon you : he taught me how to know a man in 
love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are 
not prisoner. 

Orl. What were his marks? 

Ros. A lean cheek; which you have not: a 
blue eye and sunken; which you have not: an 
unquestionable spirit; which you have not: a 
beard neglected; which you have not: but I 
pardon you for that; for simply your having In 
beard Is a younger brother's revenue : — then 
your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet 
unhanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe 
untied, and everything about you demonstrating 
a careless desolation. But you are no such 
man; you are rather point-device In your ac- 
coutrements ; as loving yourself than seeming the 
lover of any other. 

232 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

OrL Fair youth, I would I could make thee 
believe I love. 

Ros. Me believe It! you may as soon make 
her that you love believe It; which, I warrant, 
she Is apter to do than to confess she does : that 
is one of the points in the which women still 
give the lie to their consciences. But, in good 
sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the 
trees, wherein Rosalind Is so admired? 

OrL I swear to thee, youth, by the white 
hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortu- 
nate he. 

Ros. But are you so much In love as your 
rhymes speak? 

OrL Neither rhyme nor reason can express 
how much. 

Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell 
you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip 
as madmen do: and the reason why they are 
not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is 
so ordinary that the whippers are In love too. 
Yet I profess curing it by counsel. 

OrL Did you ever cure any so? 

Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He 
was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and 1 
set him every day to woo me: at which time 
would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be 
effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; 
proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, 
full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion 

233 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

something, and for no passion truly anything, as 
boys and women are for the most part cattle of 
this colour: would now like him, now loath him; 
then entertain him, then forswear him; now 
weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave 
my suitor from his mad humour of love 
to a loving humour of madness; which 
was, to forswear the full stream of the 
world, and to live in a nook nearly monastic. 
And thus I cured him ; and this way will I take 
upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound 
sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of 
love in 't. 

Orl. I would not be cured, youth. 

Ros. I would cure you if you would but call 
me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote 
and woo me. 

Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will: 
tell me where it is. 

Ros. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you : 
and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the 
forest you live. Will you go? 

Orl. With all my heart, good youth. 

Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. — 
Come, sister, will you go ? 

Some time after, Rosalind and Celia discuss 
Orlando, who has been taking the " cure " rec- 
ommended by his lady love, who Is still mas- 
querading as a youth. 

234 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Ros, Never talk to me; I will weep. 

CeL ^ Do, I pr'ythee ; but yet have the grace 
to consider that tears do not become a man. 

Ros, But have I not cause to weep? 

CeL As good cause as one would desire; 
therefore weep. 

Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling 
colour. 

CeL Something browner than Judas's : 
marry, his kisses are Judas's own children. 

Ros. V faith, his hair is of a good colour. 

CeL An excellent colour : your chestnut was 
ever the only colour. 

Ros, And his kissing Is as full of sanctity as 
the touch of holy bread. 

CeL He hath bought a pair of cast lips of 
Diana : a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not 
more rehgiously; the very ice of chastity is in 
them. 

Ros. But why did he swear he would come 
this morning, and comes not ? 

CeL Nay, certainly, there Is no truth In him. 

Ros. Do you think so? 

CeL Yes; I think he is not a pickpurse nor 
a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do 
think him as concave as a covered goblet or a 
worm-eaten nut. 

Ros. Not true In love ? 

CeL Yes, when he is in; but I think he is 
not in. 

235 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Ros. You have heard him swear downright 
he was. 

CeL Was is not is: besides, the oath of a 
lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; 
they are both the confirmers of false reckonings. 
He attends here in the forest on the duke, your 
father. 

Ros, I met the duke yesterday, and had 
much question with him. He asked me of 
what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as 
he; so he laughed and let me go. But what 
talk we of fathers when there is such a man as 
Orlando? 

CeL O, that's a brave man ! he writes brave 
verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, 
and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart 
the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that 
spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff 
like a noble goose: but all's brave that youth 
mounts and folly guides. 

A later scene in the forest brings the dis- 
guised Rosalind, Celia and Jaques into converse. 

Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be bet- 
ter acquainted with thee. 

Ros. They say you are a melancholy fel- 
low. 

Jaq, I am so ; I do love it better than laugh- 
ing. 

Ros, Those that are in extremity of either 

236 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

are abominable fellows, and betray themselves 
to every modern censure worse than drunkards. 

Jaq, Why, 'tis good to be sad and say noth- 
ing. 

Ros. Why, then, 'tis good to be a post. 

Jaq, I have neither the scholar's melan- 
choly, which is emulation; nor the musician's, 
which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which 
is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; 
nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, 
which is nice; nor the lover's, which Is all these: 
but It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded 
of many simples, extracted from many objects : 
and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my 
travels, in which my often rumination wraps me 
in a most humourous sadness. 

Ros, A traveller! By my faith, you have 
great reason to be sad : I fear you have sold your 
own lands to see other men's; then, to have seen 
much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes 
and poor hands. 

Jaq, Yes, I have gained my experience. 

Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I 
had rather have a fool to make me merry than 
experience to make me sad; and to travel for it 
too. 

Enter Orlando. 

Orl, Good day, and happiness, dear Rosa- 
lind! 

237 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you 
talk in blank verse. 

Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller: look 
you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the 
benefits of your own country; be out of love 
with your nativity, and almost chide God for 
making you that countenance you are ; or I will 
scarce think you have swam in a gondola. 
[^Exit Jaques.] Why, how now, Orlando! 
where have you been all this while? You a 
lover! — An you serve me such another trick, 
never come in my sight more. 

Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an 
hour of my promise. 

Ros. Break an hour^s promise in love ! He 
that will divide a minute into a thousand part§, 
and break but a part of a thousandth part of a 
minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of 
him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoul- 
der, but I warrant him heart-whole. 

Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 

Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no 
more in my sight: I had as lief be woo'd of a 
snail. 

OrL Of a snail! 

Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes 
slowly, he carries his house on his head; a bet- 
ter jointure, I think, than you can make a 
woman: besides, he brings his destiny with 
him. 



238 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a 
holiday humour, and like enough to consent. — 
What would you say to me now, an I were your 
very very Rosalind? 

OrL I would kiss before I spoke. 

Ros, Nay, you were better speak first; and 
when you were gravelled for lack of matter, 
you might take occasion to kiss. Very good 
orators, when they are out, they will spit; and 
for lovers lacking, — God warn us ! — matter, 
the cleanliest shift is to kiss. 

OrL How if the kiss be denied? 

Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and 
there begins new matter. 

OrL Who could be out, being before his be- 
loved mistress? 

Ros, Marry, that should you, if I were 
your mistress; or I should think my honesty 
ranker than my wit. 

OrL What, of my suit? 

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out 
of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind? 

OrL I take some joy to say you are, because 
I would be talking of her. 

Ros, Well, In her person, I say, I will not 
have you. 

OrL Then, in mine own person, I die. 

Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The 
poor world is almost six thousand years old, 
and in all this time there was not any man died 

239 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. 
Trollus had his brains dashed out with a Gre- 
cian club; yet he did what he could to die be- 
fore; and he is one of the patterns of love. 
Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, 
though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been 
for a hot midsummer-night; for, good youth, he 
went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, 
and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; 
and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it 
was — Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies; 
men have died from time to time, and worms 
have eaten them, but not for love. 

Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of 
this mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill 
me. 

Ros, By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But 
come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more 
coming-on disposition; and ask me what you 
will, I will grant it. 

OrL Then love me, Rosalind. 

Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays and Satur- 
days, and all. 

Orl. And wilt thou have me? 

Ros. Ay, and twenty such. 

Orl. What say'st thou? 

Ros. Are you not good? 

Orl. I hope so. 

Ros. Why, then, can one desire too much 
of a good thing? — Come, sister, you shall be 

240 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

the priest, and marry us. — Give me your hand, 
Orlando : — What do you say, sister ? 

OrL Pray thee, marry us. 

Cel. I cannot say the words. 

Ros, You must begin, — JVill you, Or- 
lando, — 

Cel. Go to : — Will you, Orlando, have to 
wife this Rosalind? 

Orl I will. 

Ros, Ay, but when? 

OrL Why, now; as fast as she can marry 
us. 

Ros. Then you must say, — / take thee, 
Rosalind, for wife. 

Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. 

Ros. I might ask you for your commission; 
but, — I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband : 
— there's a girl goes before the priest; and, 
certainly, a woman's thoughts run before her 
actions. 

OrL So do all thoughts ; they are winged. 

Ros. Now tell me how long you would have 
her, after you have possessed her. 

OrL For ever and a day. 

Ros. Say a day, without the ever. No, no, 
Orlando; men are April when they woo, De- 
cember when they wed: maids are May when 
they are maids, but the sky changes when they 
are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than 
a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more 

241 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

clamorous than a parrot against rain; more 
new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my 
desires than a monkey : I will weep for nothing, 
like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that 
when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh 
like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to 
sleep. 

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so ? 

Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. 

Orl. O, but she is wise. 

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to 
do this: the wiser, the waywarden make the 
doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the 
casement; shut that, and it will out at the key- 
hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at 

the chimney. 

• •••■• 

You shall never take her without her an- 
swer, unless you take her without her tongue. 
O, that woman that cannot make her fault her 
husband's occasion, let her never nurse her 
child herself, for she will breed it like a fool. 

In a forest scene, before the banished duke, 
Touchstone gives proof of the rare quality of 
his wit: 

Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome. 
This is the motley-minded gentleman that I 
have so often met in the forest: he hath been 
a courtier, he swears. 

242 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put 
me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; 
I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with 
my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have 
undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, 
and like to have fought one. 

Jaq. And how was that ta'en up? 

Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quar- 
rel was upon the seventh cause. 

Jaq. How seventh cause? 

• ••••• 

Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed; 
— bear your body more seeming, Audrey: — 
as thus, sir, I did dislike the cut of a certain 
courtier's beard; he sent me word, if I said his 
beard was not cut well, he was In the mind it 
was: this Is called the Retort courteous. If I 
sent him word again. It was not well cut, he 
would send me word he cut it to please himself: 
this Is called the Quip modest. If again, It 
was not well cut, he disabled my judgment: 
this Is called the Reply churlish. If again. It 
was not well cut, he would answer, I spake not 
true: this Is called the Reproof valiant. If 
again. It was not well cut, he would say, I 
lie: this Is called the Countercheck quarrelsome: 
and so, to the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie 
direct. 

Jaq. And how oft did you say his beard 
was not well cut? 

243 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Touch, I durst go no farther than the Lie 
circumstantial y nor he durst not give me the 
Lie direct; and so we measured swords and 
parted. 

Jaq, Can you nominate In order now the 
degrees of the lie? 

Touch. O, sir, we quarrel In print by the 
book, as you have books for good manners : I 
win name you the degrees. The first, the Re- 
tort courteous; the second, the Quip modest; 
the third, the Reply churlish; the fourth, the 
Reproof valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck 
quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with circum- 
stance; the seventh, the Lie direct. All these 
you may avoid but the lie direct; and you may 
avoid that too with an //. I knew when seven 
justices could not take up a quarrel; but when 
the parties were met themselves, one of them 
thought but of an If, as // you said so, then I 
said so; and they shook hands, and swore 
brothers. Your // Is the only peace-maker : — 
much virtue In //. 

Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he's 
as good at anything, and yet a fool. 

Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking- 
horse, and under the presentation of that he 
shoots his wit. 

Oliver comes to the forest In search of Or- 
lando, who there rescues him from the attack 

244 



WIT AND HUMOUR' 

of a lion. This creates a sudden change of 
heart In the wicked brother: he repents of his 
past wrong-doing and unklndness, and is for- 
given. 

The usurping duke, on his way to the forest 
with an army, to capture and kill his brother, is 
converted from his enterprise, and likewise 
from the world, by " an old, religious man " he 
chances to meet, and abandons the dukedom to 
the rightful ruler. 

In the last scene of the play Rosalind weds 
Orlando, and Cella his reformed brother, 
while Touchstone, In keeping with his pro- 
fessed disregard for appearances and romance, 
marries Audrey, an Ill-favoured, simple-minded 
'^nd Ignorant country wench. 



245 



TWELFTH NIGHT 

The story of "Twelfth Night; or What 
You Will," Is of Italian origin. Its chief in- 
cidents are evidently derived either from a 
novel by Bandello or an Italian play based upon 
that romance and entitled " II Sacrificio," In 
which there Is a character named Malevoltl, 
corresponding to Shakespeare's Malvollo. 

The scene is laid In Illyria. Duke Orsino Is 
in love with Olivia, a rich countess who has se- 
cluded herself from the v»^orld because of grief 
over her brother's death. Viola, a young gen- 
tlewoman who has been shipwrecked and has 
disguised herself In man's apparel, enters the 
service of the duke under the name of Cesario, 
and is employed by him to urge his suit with 
the countess. Olivia, not suspecting the decep- 
tion, falls In love with the handsome messenger. 
Viola's brother, Sebastian, who was separated 
from her by the shipwreck, eventually appears. 
He is so much her counterpart, as she looks in 
masculine attire, that Olivia mistakes him for 

246 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

the pretended Cesario and woos him ardently. 
He at once returns her love, and a speedy mar- 
riage follows, before she discovers his identity. 
The duke then transfers his affections to Viola, 
who has been secretly in love with him. 

The chief character of the comic underplot 
of the play Is Malvolio, the exceedingly vain, 
affected, self-important steward of the countess. 
Maria, her waiting-woman, conspires with Sir 
Toby Belch, a convivial uncle of Olivia, and Sir 
Andrew Aguecheek, a ludicrous suitor for the 
hand of the countess, to play upon the vanity of 
Malvolio, so as to make him believe his mistress 
is in love with him. This deception succeeds 
so well that he is made utterly ridiculous, and 
the countess, who does not suspect the cause of 
his strange behaviour, is completely amazed by 
it. 

The " clown *' who figures in this play Is one 
of the cleverest of Shakespeare's fools or jest- 
ers. 

A Room in Olivia's House, 

Enter Maria and Clown. 

Mar. Nay; either tell me where thou hast 
been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a 

247 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

bristle may enter in way of thy excuse : my lady 
will hang thee for thy absence. 

Clo. Let her hang me: he that is well 
hanged in this world needs to fear no colours. 

Mar. Make that good. 

Clo. He shall see none to fear. 

Mar. A good lenten answer : I can tell thee 
where that saying was born, of, I fear no col- 
ours. 

Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary? 

Mar. In the wars; and that may you be 
bold to say in your foolery. 

Clo. Well, God give them wisdom that 
have it; and those that are fools, let them use 
their talents. 

Mar. Yet you will be hanged for being so 
long absent: or, to be turned away; is not that 
as good as a hanging to you ? 

Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad 
marriage; and for turning away, let summer 
bear it out. 



Enter Olivia and Malvolio. 

Clo. Wit, an 't be thy will, put me into 
good fooling ! Those wits that think they have 
thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am 
sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For 
what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool 
than foolish wit. — God bless thee, lady ! 

248 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

OIL Take the fool away. 

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take 
away the lady. 

OH, Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more 
of you : besides, you grow dishonest. 

Clo, Two faults, madonna, that drink and 
good counsel will amend : for give the dry fool 
drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishon- 
est man mend himself: if he mend, he is no 
longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher 
mend him. Anything that's mended is but 
patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched 
with sin; and sin that amends is but patched 
with virtue. . . . The lady bade take away the 
fool; therefore, I say again, take her away. 

OH. Sir, I bade them take away you. 

Clo, Misprision in the highest degree ! — 
Lady, Cuciilliis non facit monachiim ; that's as 
much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. 
Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a 
fool. 

OIL Can you do it? 

Clo, Dexterously, good madonna. 

on. Make your proof. 

Clo, I must catechise you for it, madonna. 
Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. 

on. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, 
I'll 'bide your proof. 

Clo, Good madonna, why mourn'st thou? 

Oli, Good fool, for my brother's death. 

249 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Clo, I think his soul Is In hell, madonna. 

OIL I know his soul Is in heaven, fool. 

Clo. The more fool you, madonna, to 
mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. 
— Take away the fool, gentlemen. 

on. What think you of this fool, Mal- 
volio? doth he not mend? 

MaL Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of 
death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the 
wise, doth ever make the better fool. 

Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, 
for the better increasing your folly ! Sir Toby 
will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not 
pass his word for twopence that you are no 
fool. 

on. How say you to that, Malvolio? 

MaL I marvel your ladyship takes delight 
In such a barren rascal; I saw him put down the 
other day with an ordinary fool that has no 
more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's 
out of his guard already; unless you laugh and 
minister occasion to him, he Is gagged. I pro- 
test, I take these wise men, that crow so at 
these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' 
zanies. 

on. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, 
and taste with a distempered appetite. To be 
generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to 
take those things for bird-bolts that you deem 
cannon-bullets. There Is no slander In an al- 

250 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

lowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor 
no railing In a known discreet man, though he 
do nothing but reprove. 

In a subsequent scene the clown sings : 

O, mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O stay and hear; your true love's coming, 

That can sing both high and low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 

Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 
Every wise man's son doth know. 

What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 
Present mirth hath present laughter; 

What's to come is still unsure: 
In delay there lies no plenty; 
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 

Youth's a stuff will not endure. 

In a merry talk with Sir Toby and Sir An- 
drew, Maria unfolds her plan to deceive Mal- 
vollo and make him ridiculous. 

For Monsieur Malvollo, let me alone with 
him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and 
make him a common recreation, do not think I 
have wit enough to He straight in my bed. I 
know I can do it. 

Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us some- 
thing of him. 

Mar, Marry, sir, sometimes he Is a kind of 
Puritan. 

Sir And. O, if I thought that, Fd beat him 
like a dog. 

251 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy ex- 
quisite reason, dear knight? 

Sir And, I have no exquisite reason for 't, 
but I have reason good enough. 

Mar, The devil a Puritan that he is, or 
anything constantly but a time pleaser: an af- 
fection'd ass that cons state without book and 
utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded 
of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with ex- 
cellences, that it is his ground of faith that all 
that look on him love him; and on that vice in 
him will my revenge find notable cause to work. 

Sir To, What wilt thou do ? 

Mar, I will drop in his way some obscure 
epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his 
beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his 
gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and 
complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly 
personated. I can write very like my lady, 
your niece ; on a forgotten matter we can hardly 
make distinction of our hands. 

Sir To, Excellent! I smell a device. 

Sir And, I have 't in my nose too. 

Sir To, He shall think, by the letters that 
thou wilt drop, that they com*^ from my niece, 
and that she is in love with him. 

Mar. My purpose is, Indeed, a horse of 
that colour. 

Sir And. And your horse now would make 
him an ass. 

252 



WIT AND HU M O U R 

Maria writes a cunningly worded love letter 
in a counterfeit of Olivia's hand, and drops it 
on a walk in the garden when Malvolio is ap- 
proaching. The two jocular knights and 
Fabian, a servant, hide themselves where they 
can hear what he may say, and Maria disap- 
pears. 

Enter Malvolio. 

Mai. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. 
Maria once told me she did affect me: and I 
have heard herself come thus near, that, should 
she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. 
Besides, she uses me with a more exalted re- 
spect than anyone else that follows her. What 
should I think on 't? 

Sir To. Here's an overwhelming rogue ! 

Fab, O, peace ! Contemplation makes a 
rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his 
advanced plumes ! 

Sir And, 'Slight, I could so beat the 
rogue : — 

Sir To. Peace, I say. 

Mai. To be Count Malvolio; — ■ 

Sir To. Ah, rogue ! 

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 

Sir To. Peace, peace. 

Mai. There is example for 't; the lady of 
the Strachy married the yeoman of the ward- 
robe. 

253 



S H A K E S P E A R E ' S 

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel! 

Fah. O, peace! now he's deeply In; look 
how Imagination blows him. 

MaL Having been three months married 
to her, sitting in my state,- - 

Sir To, O for a stone-bow to hit him in the 
eye! 

Mai. Calling my officers about me In my 
branched velvet gown; having come from a 
day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping. 

Sir To. Fire and brimstone 1 

Fah. O, peace, peace. 

Mai. And then to have the humour of 
state: and after a demure travel of regard,: — 
telling them I know my place as I would they 
should do theirs, — to ask for my kinsman 
Toby. 

Sir To, Bolts and shackles I 

Fah. O, peace, peace, peace ! now, now. 

Mai. Seven of my people, with an obedient 
start, make out for him : I frown the while ; and 
perchance, wind up my watch, or play with 
some rich jewel. Toby approaches; court'sies 
there to me: 

Sir To. Shall this fellow live? 

Fah. Though our silence be drawn from 
us with cars, yet peace. 

Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, 
quenching my familiar smile with an austere re- 
gard of control: 

254 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a 
blow o' the lips then? 

Mai. Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes 
having cast me on your niece, give me this pre- 
rogative of speech: — 

Sir To. What, what? 

Mai. You must amend your drunkenness. 

Sir To. Out, scab ! 

Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews 
of our plot. 

Mai. Besides, you waste the treasure of 
your time with a foolish knight; 

Sir And. That's me, I warrant you. 

Mai. One Sir Andrew: 

Sir And. I knew 'twas I; for many do call 
me fool. 

Mai. What employment have we here? 

[Taking up the letter. 

Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 

Sir To. O, peace! and the spirit of hu- 
mours intimate reading aloud to him ! 

Mai. By my life, this is my lady's hand: 
these be her very C's, her t/'s, and her T's; and 
thus makes she her great P's. It is in con- 
tempt of question her hand. 

Sir And. Her C's, her t/'s, and her T's. 
Why that? 

Mai. [reads. '\ To the unknown beloved, 
this, and my good wishes: her very phrases! — 
By your leave, wax. — Soft ! — and. the impres- 

255 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

sure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 
'tis my lady. To whom should this be ? 
Fab. This wms him, liver and all. 

Mai, [reads.'] Jo've knoivs I love: 

But, ivho? 
Lips do not mo've. 
No man must know. 

No man must know. — What follows? the 
numbers altered! — No man must know: — If 
this should be thee, Malvolio? 

Sir. To. Marry, hang thee, brock! 

Mai. I may command ivhere I adore: 

But silence, like a Lucrece knife. 
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; 
M, O, A, I, doth siuay my life. 

Fab. A fustian riddle! 

Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 

Mai. M, O, A, I, doth sway my life. — 
Nay, but first let me see, — let me see, — let me 
see. 

Fab. What a dish of poison hath she 
dressed him ! 

Sir To. And with what wing the stannyel 
checks at it ! 

Mai. I may command where I adore. 
Why, she may command me : I serve her, she is 
my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal 
capacity. There is no obstruction in this; — 
And the end, — What should that alphabetical 
position portend? If I could make that re- 

256 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

semble something in me, — Softly I — M, O, 
A, /.— 

Sir To, O, ay! make up that: — he is now 
at a cold scent. 

• ••••• 

Mai M, — M alvolio ; — M, — why, that 
begins my name. 

• ••••• 
Mai. But then there is no consonancy in the 

sequel; that suffers under probation; A should 
follow, but O does. 

Fab, And O shall end, I hope. 

Sir To, Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make 
him cry O. 

Mai, And then / comes behind. 

Fab, Ay, an you had any eye behind you, 
you might see more detraction at your heels 
than fortunes before you. 

Mai. M, 0, A, I; — This simulation is not 
as the former : — and yet, to crush this a little, 
it would bow to me, for every one of these let- 
ters are in my name. Soft; here follows 
prose. — // this fall into thy hand, revolve. In 
my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid 
of greatness. Some are born great, some 
achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands; 
let thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, 
to insure thyself to what thou art like to be, 
cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be 

257 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants: 
let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thy- 
self into the trick of singularity : She thus ad- 
vises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who 
commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to 
see thee ever cross-gartered, I say, remember. 
Go to; thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; 
if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow 
of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune^s 
fingers. Farewell, She that would alter serV' 
ices with thee, 

The fortunate unhappy. 
Daylight and champian discovers not more: 
this is open. I will be proud, I will read 
politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will 
wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-de- 
vice, the very man. I do not now fool myself 
to let imagination jade me; for every reason 
excites to this, that my lady loves me. She 
did commend my yellow stockings of late, she 
did praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in 
this she manifests herself to my love, and, with 
a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits 
of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. 
I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and 
cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of put- 
ting on. Jove and my stars be praised ! — 
Here is yet a postscript. Thou canst not 
choose but know who I am. If thou entertain- 
est my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy 

258 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

smiles become thee well: therefore in my pres- 
ence still smile, dear my sweet, I pr'ythee, 
Jove, I thank thee. — I will smile : I will do 
everything that thou wilt have me. [Exit. 

Fab. I will not give my part of this sport 
for a pension of thousands to be paid from the 
Sophy. 

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this 
device : 

Sir And. So could I too. 

Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her 
but such another jest. 

Enter Maria. 



Sir To. Why, thou hast put him In such a 
dream, that, when the image of it leaves him, 
he must run mad. 

• ••••• 

Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the 
sport, mark his first approach before my lady: 
he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 
'tis a colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a 
fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, 
which will now be so unsuitable to her disposi- 
tion, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, 
that it cannot but turn him into a notable con- 
tempt : if you will see it, follow me. 

259 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

In a subsequent scene Maria reports to Sir 
Toby that Malvolio has donned yellow stock- 
ings and is cross-gartered " most villainously." 
She adds: 

He does obey every point of the letter that 
I dropped to betray him. He does smile his 
face into more lines than are in the new map, 
with the augmentation of the Indies: you have 
not seen such a thing as 'tis; I can hardly for- 
bear hurling things at him. I know my lady 
will strike him; if she do, he'll smile, and take 't 
for a great favour. 

Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he 
is. \_Exeunt. 

Later, in the garden, Olivia Is warned by 
Maria that Malvolio is coming " in strange 
manner " ; that " he is sure possessed," " tainted 
in his wits." 

OH. Go call him hither. — I'm as mad as 
he, 
If sad and merry madness equal be. — 

Enter Malvolio. 

How now, Malvolio? 

Mai. Sweet lady, ho, ho. 

[Sfniles fantastically. 

260 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Oil. SmiPst thou ? 
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 

Mai. Sad, lady? I could be sad: this does 
make some obstruction in the blood, this cross- 
gartering. But what of that; if it please the 
eye of one, it Is with me as the very true sonnet 
is: Please one and please all, 

OH. Why, how dost thou, man; what Is the 
matter with thee ? 

Mai. Not black In my mind, though yellow 
In my legs. It did come to his hands, and com- 
mands shall be executed. I think we do know 
the sweet Roman hand. 



Oli. God comfort thee! Why dost thou 
smile on, and kiss thy hand so oft? 

Mar. How do you, Malvolio? 

Mai. At your request? Yes; nightingales 
answer daws. 

Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous 
boldness before my lady? 

Mai. Be not afraid of greatness: — 'twas 
well writ. 

on. What meanest thou by that, Mal- 
volio ? 

Mai. Some are horn great, — 

on. Ha ? 

Mai. Some achieve greatness, — 

OH What say'st thou? 

261 



SHAKESPEAR E ' S 

Mai. And some have greatness thrust upon 
them. 

on. Heaven restore thee ! 

Mai. Remember who commended thy yel- 
low stockings: — 

Oli. Thy yellow stockings? 

Mai. And wished to see thee cross-gar- 
tered. 

Oli. Cross-gartered? 

Mai. Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest 
to be so: — 

Oli. Am I made? 

Mai. If not, let me see thee a servant still. 

Oli. Why, this Is very midsummer mad- 
ness. 

• ••••• 

Oli. Good Maria, let this fellow be looked 
to. Where's my cousin Toby? Let some of 
my people have a special care of him; I would 
not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. 

'Exeunt Olivia and Maria. 

Mai. Oh, ho' do you come near me now? 
no worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? 
This concurs directly with the letter: she sends 
him on purpose that I may appear stubborn to 
him; for she incites me to that in the letter. 
Cast thy humble slough, says she ; — be oppo- 
site with a kinsman, surly with servants, — let 
thy tongue tang with arguments of state, — put 
thyself into the trick of singularity ; — and, 

262 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

consequently, sets down the manner how; as, a 
sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, In 
the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I 
have limed her; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove 
make me thankful ! And, when she went away 
now. Let this fellow be looked to: Fellow! 
not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. 
Why, everything adheres together; that no 
dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no 
obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circum- 
stance, — What can be said? Nothing, that 
can be, can come between me and the full pros- 
pect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the 
doer of this, and he is to be thanked. 

Maria returns and, with the help of Sir 
Toby and Fabian, amuses herself by pretend- 
ing, before Malvolio, that she thinks him pos- 
sessed by a devil, mad or bewitched. Malvolio 
treats them disdainfully and retires, saying: 

Go, hang yourselves all I you are idle shal- 
low things: I am not of your element; you shall 
know more hereafter. 

After the deluded steward goes out. Sir 
Toby tells Maria and Fabian that he will have 
Malvolio put in a dark room and bound, " for 
their pleasure and his penance," until they tire 
of the pastime and have mercy upon him. The 

263 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

victim being thus shut up, Maria induces the 
clown to personate Sir Topas the curate, so as 
to deceive Malvolio and entertain Sir Toby. 

Clo, What, hoa, I say, — Peace in this 
prison ! 

Sir To, The knave counterfeits well; a 
good knave. 

MaL [/« an inner chamber.^ Who calls 
there ? 

Clo, Sir Topas the curate, who comes to 
visit Malvolio the lunatic. 

Mai. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir To- 
pas, go to my lady. 

Clo, Out, hyperbolical fiend ! how vexest 
thou this man? talkest thou nothing but of la- 
dies? 

Sir To. Well said, master parson. 

Mai. Sir Topas, never was man thus 
wronged: good Sir Topas, do not think I am 
mad; they have laid me here in hideous dark- 
ness. 

Clo, Fie, thou dishonest Sathan! I call 
thee by the most modest terms ; for I am one of 
those gentle ones that will use the devil him- 
self with courtesy. Say'st thou that house is 
dark? 

Mai, As hell. Sir Topas. 

Clo, Why, it hath bay-windows, transpar- 
ent as barricadoes, and the clear storeys to- 

264 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

wards the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; 
and yet complainest thou of obstruction ? 

MaL I am not mad, Sir Topas; I say to 
you this house Is dark. 

Clo. Madman, thou errest. I say there is 
no darkness but ignorance; in which thou art 
more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. 

Mai. I say this house is as dark as igno- 
rance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; 
and I say there was never man thus abused. I 
am no more mad than you are; make the trial 
of It in any constant question. 

Clo, What is the opinion of Pythagoras 
concerning wild-fowl? 

MaL That the soul of our grandam might 
haply Inherit a bird. 

Clo, What thinkest thou of his opinion? 

MaL I think nobly of the soul, and no way 
approve of his opinion. 

Clo, Fare thee well. Remain thou still In 
darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of 
Pythagoras ere I will allow thy wits; and fear 
to kill a woodcock lest thou dispossess the soul 
of thy grandam. Fare thee well. 

The clown then diverts himself by talking In 
his own voice and person to the Imprisoned 
steward. 

Clo, , . . Who calls, ha? 
MaL Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve 

265 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, 
ink, and paper ; as I am a gentleman, I will live 
to be thankful to thee for 't. 

Clo, Master Malvolio! 

Mai. Ay, good fool. 

Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you beside your 
five wits? 

Mai. Fool, there was never man so notori- 
ously abused; I am as well in my wits, fool, as 
thou art. 

Clo. But as well? then you are mad indeed, 
if you be no better in your wits than a fool. 

Mai. They have here propertied me; keep 
me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and 
do all they can to face me out of my wits. 

Clo. Advise you what you say; the minis- 
ter is here. — Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the 
heavens restore ! endeavour thyself to sleep, 
and leave thy vain bibble-babble. 

Mai. Sir Topas, — 

Clo. Maintain no words with him, good 
fellow. Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God b' wi' 
you, good Sir Topas. — Marry, amen. — I will, 
sir, I will. 

Mai. Fool, fool, fool, I say, — 

Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, 
sir? I am shent for speaking to you. 

Mai. Good fool, help me to some light and 
some paper ; I tell thee I am as well in my wits 
as any man in Illyria. 

266 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Clo, Well-a-day, — that you were, sir! 

Mai, By this hand, I am : Good fool, some 
ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will 
set down to my lady; It shall advantage thee 
more than ever the bearing of letter did. 

Clo, I will help you to 't. But tell me 
true, are you not mad Indeed? or do you but 
counterfeit? 

Mai. Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true. 

Clo, Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till 
I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and 
paper, and Ink. 

The letter written by the duped Malvollo in 
his confinement is conveyed to his mistress by 
the clown, and his complaint that she has 
wronged him by means of a letter gives her an 
Inkling that some deception has been practised. 
She sends for him, and when he appears and 
shows the missive that Maria dropped in the 
garden for him to pick up, Olivia recognises 
Maria's handwriting. Fabian then reveals the 
sportive plot to make a laughing stock of the 
vain and pretentious steward, and Olivia ex- 
presses much sympathy for him In his discom- 
fiture. But the clown cannot forbear to exult 
over the crestfallen victim, mocking him In this 
fashion : 

267 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Why, some are born great^ some achieve 
greatness, and some have greatness thrown 
upon them, I was one, sir. In this Interlude; 
one Sir Topas, sir; but that's all one: — By the 
Lord, fool, I am not mad; — But do you re- 
member? Madam, why laugh you at such a 
barren rascal? an you smile not, he^s gagged. 
And thus the whirligig of time brings In his re- 
venges. 

Malvollo goes off, vowing vengeance on all 
his persecutors. But as Fabian announces that 
Sir Toby has married Maria, In recompense for 
writing the decoy letter which afforded him so 
much entertainment through the fooling of j 
Malvollo, it is to be presumed that she has little 
reason to fear the steward's resentment and is 
well satisfied with the result of her clever trick- 
ery. 



268 



THE WINTER'S TALE 

" The Winter's Tale " seems to have been 
so named because the moving, romantic story 
it unfolds is well suited to be told by the fire- 
side, and to beguile of tediousness the long 
hours of a wintry evening. Or, more directly, 
the title may have been suggested by the re- 
mark of Hermione's son to his mother, In the 
first scene of the second act: "A sad tale's 
best for winter." 

The plot Is based upon " Pandosto," a novel 
by Robert Greene, popular In Shakespeare's 
day. 

Leontes, King of Sicilia, insanely and with- 
out cause jealous of his devoted wife Hermi- 
one, casts her into prison, where she gives birth 
to a daughter. By the king's orders the infant 
is exposed to death, on a remote and desolate 
coast, where it is found and reared by shep- 
herds, and is by them named Perdita. The 
queen's innocence is subsequently declared by 
an oracle, but, on being told of the death of 

269 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

her son Mamilllus, she falls in a swoon and Is 
borne away by her faithful women. She is 
mourned as dead by Leontes, but lives In con- 
cealment for sixteen years, and Is then restored 
to him. 

Perdlta, who is of rare charm and gentleness 
when grown to womanhood, Is encountered by 
Florizel, Crown Prince of the kingdom in 
which she is reared, and in the disguise of a 
shepherd he woos her and wins her love. 
Eventually her identity is established, and all 
ends happily. 

The comic character of the play is Autolycus, 
a merry pedlar, thief and liar, who picks the 
pockets of the rustics and diverts himself by 
their ignorance and simplicity. 

Enter Autolycus, singing. 

When daflFodlls begin to peer, — 

With, hey! the doxy over the dale, — 
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; 

For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. 

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, — 

With, hey! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! — 

Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; 
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 

The lark, that tirra-lirra chants, — 

With, hey! with, hey! the thrush and the jay, — 
Are summer songs for me and my aunts, 

While we lie tumbling in the hay. 

270 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

I have served Prince Florlzel, and, In my time, 
wore three-pile; but now I am out of service: 

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? 

The pale moon shines by night: 
And when I wander here and there, 

I then do most go right. 

If tinkers may have leave to live, 

And bear the sow-skin budget, 
Then my account I well may give 

And in the stocks avouch it. 

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look 
to lesser linen. My father named me Auto- 
lycus; who being, as I am, littered under Mer- 
cury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered 
trifles. With die and drab I purchased this 
caparison; and my revenue is the silly-cheat: 
gallows and knock are too powerful on the 
highway; beating and hanging are terrors to 
me ; for the life to come, I sleep out the thought 
of it. — A prize! a prize! 

Enter Clown. 

Clo, Let me see : — every 'leven wether 

tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling; 

fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to ? 

Aut. If the springe hold, the cock's mine. 

\^Aside. 
Clo, I cannot do 't without counters. — 
Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep- 
shearing feast? Three pound of sugar; jive 

271 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

pound of currants; rice — what will this sister 
of mine do with rice? But my father hath 
made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it 
on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nose- 
gays for the shearers, — three-man song-men 
all, and very good ones; but they are most of 
them means and bases; but one puritan amongst 
them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I 
must have saffron, to colour the warden pies; 
mace — dates, — none; that's out of my note; 
nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, — but 
that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as 
many of raisins o' the sun, 

Aut. O that ever I was born! 

[Grovelling on the ground, 

Clo, V the name of me, — 

Aut, O, help me, help me! pluck but off 
these rags; and then, death, death! 

Clo, Alack, poor soul 1 thou hast need of 
more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these 
off. 

Aut, O, sir, the loathsomeness of them of- 
fends me more than the stripes I have received, 
which are mighty ones and millions. 

Clo, Alas, poor man! a million of beating 
may come to a great matter. 

Aut, I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my 
money and apparel ta'en from me, and these 
detestable things put upon me. 

Clo, What, by a horseman or a footman? 

272 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Aut. A footman, sweet sir, a footman. 

Clo, Indeed, he should be a footman, by 
the garments he has left with thee: if this be a 
horseman's coat, it hath seen very hot service. 
Lend me thy hand, I'll help thee: come, lend 
me thy hand. [Helping him up, 

Aut, O, good sir, tenderly, 1 

Clo, Alas, poor soul! 

Aut, Oh, good sir, softly, good sir: I fear, 
sir, my shoulder blade is out. 

Clo, How now! canst stand? 

Aut, Softly, dear sir! [^picks his pocket'^ 
good sir, softly; you ha' done me a charitable 
office. 

Clo. Dost lack any money? I have a little 
money for thee. 

Aut, No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, 
sir: I have a kinsman not past three quarters 
of a mile hence, unto whom I was going; I 
shall there have money or anything I want: 
offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my 
heart. 

Clo, What manner of fellow was he that 
robbed you ? 

Aut, A fellow, sir, that I have known to 
go about with troll-my-dames : I knew him once 
a servant of the prince : I cannot tell, good sir, 
for which of his virtues it was, but he was cer- 
tainly whipped out of the court. 

Clo, His vices, you would say; there's no 

273 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Virtue whipped out of the court: they cherish 
it, to make it stay there ; and yet it will no more 
but abide. 

Aut. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this 
man well: he hath been since an ape-bearer; 
then a process-server, a bailiff; then he com- 
passed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and mar- 
ried a tinker's wife within a mile where my 
land and living lies; and, having flown over 
many knavish professions, he settled only in 
rogue : some call him Autolycus. 

Clo. Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: 
he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings. 

Aut. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the 
rogue that put me into this apparel. 

Clo. Not a more cowardly rogue In all 
Bohemia; if you had but looked big and spit 
at him, he'd have run. 

Aut. I must confess to you, sir, I am no 
fighter: I am false of heart that way; and that 
he knew, I warrant him. 

Clo. How do you now? 

Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was; I 
can stand and walk: I will even take my leave 
of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman's. 

Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way? 

Aut. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. 

Clo. Then fare thee well: I must go buy 
spices for our sheep-shearing. 

Aut. Prosper you, sweet sir I \_Exit 

274 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Clown.] Your purse is not hot enough to 
purchase your spice. I'll be with you at your 
sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat 
bring out another, and the shearers prove 
sheep, let me be enrolled, and my name put in 
the book of virtue ! [Sin^s. 

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, 

And merrily hent the stile-a: 
A merry heart goes all the day, 

Your sad tires in a mile-a. lExit, 

While the shepherds and shepherdesses are 
celebrating the sheepshearing with feasting and 
dancing, a servant enters and announces the ar- 
rival of Autolycus : 

Serv, O master. If you did but hear the 
pedlar at the door, you would never dance 
again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe 
could not move you: he sings several tunes 
faster than you'll tell money : he utters them as 
he had eaten ballads, and all men's ears grew 
to his tunes. 

Clo, He could never come better: he shall 
come in: I love a ballad but even too well: if 
it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very 
pleasant thing Indeed and sung lamentably. 

Serv. He hath songs for man or woman of 
all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers 
with gloves : — he has the prettiest love-songs 
for maids. 



275 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Clo. Pr'ythee, bring him in; and let him 
approach singing. 



Enter Autolycus, singing. 

Lawn as white as driven snow; 

Cyprus black as e'er was crow; 

Gloves as sweet as damask-roses; 

Masks for faces and for noses; 

Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber, 

Perfume for a lady's chamber; 

Golden quoifs and stomachers, 

For my lads to give their dears; 

Pins and poking-sticks of steel, 

What maids lack from head to heel. 

Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; 

Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: 

Come, buy. 

Autolycus proceeds to sell absurd ballads to 
men and maids, certifying to their truth with 
most extravagant lies. He goes out with the 
rustics, and after a time returns and exults to 
himself in this fashion : 

Ha, ha ! what a fool Honesty is ! and Trust, 
his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman ! I 
have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit 
stone, not a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, 
table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, 
bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fast- 
ing; — they throng who should buy first, as if 
my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a 

276 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

benediction to the buyer : by which means I saw 
whose purse was best in picture; and what I 
saw, to my good use I remembered. My 
clown (who wants but something to be a rea- 
sonable man) grew so in love with the wenches' 
song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he 
had both tune and words; which so drew the 
rest of the herd to me, that all their other 
senses stuck in ears: ... I would have filed 
keys off that hung in chains : no hearing, no 
feeling, but my sir's song, and admiring the 
nothing of it. So that, in this time of lethargy, 
I picked and cut most of their festival purses; 
and had not the old man come in with a whoo- 
bub against his daughter and the king's son, 
and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had 
not left a purse alive in the whole army. 

To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble 
hand, is necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose 
is requisite also, to smell out work for the other 
senses. 



277 



TRAGEDIES AND HISTORICAL PLAYS 

The impression is common that Shakespeare 
made a practice of introducing amusing char- 
acters, wit or humour, in his tragedies, for the 
purpose of " comic reHef." But this is not en- 
tirely well founded. Such variety is seen in 
some of his tragedies and historical plays, but 
not in others. There is little or nothing to 
provoke mirth, or even a smile, in " King Rich- 
ard II," *' King John," " Pericles," the three 
parts of *' King Henry VI," " King Henry 
VIII," ** Titus Andronicus," and " Coriola- 
nus." King Richard III, in the play of the 
same name, exhibits much biting satire, but it 
is far from laughable. In *' Julius Caesar " 
there is nothing comic other than a few lines 
given the cobbler in the opening scene. In 
" Macbeth " one of the most tense situations 
is relieved by the porter's humourously coarse 
observations when knocking is heard and he 
admits Macduff, but otherwise the drama is 
wholly sombre. 

278 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

The tragic strain of " Othello/' on the other 
hand, Is somewhat offset by the cynical wit of 
lago. " Romeo and Juliet " has much wit and 
humour, to which Mercutio, the friar and the 
nurse contribute richly. The bitter wit of the 
fool In " King Lear " Is scarcely mirthful, but 
exceedingly Incisive and Illuminating. 

Of the historical plays " King Henry IV " is 
remarkable for comic features, each of the two 
parts Into which the play is divided being lav- 
ishly enriched by the wit and humour of Prince 
Henry and inimitable Falstaff, with his retinue 
of entertaining characters. There is also much 
amusement in '' King Henry V." 

Even the pervading melancholy and gloom 
of " Hamlet " are relieved by the ironical wit 
and philosophic humour of the prince, and also 
by the chop-logic of the grave-diggers. 



" Julius Caesar " opens with a street scene, in 
which " a rabble of citizens," gathered to re- 
joice In the ruler's triumph over Pompey, is 
accosted by Flavlus and Marullus, enemies of 
the conqueror. Singling out one of the gath- 
ering, Marullus questions him. 

279 



V 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Marullus, You, sir, what trade are you? 

2 Cit, Truly, sir, in respect of a fine work- 
man, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. 

Mar, But what trade art thou? answer me 
directly. 

2 Ctt, A trade, sir, that I hope I may use 
with a safe conscience; which is indeed, sir, a 
mender of bad soles. 

Mar, What trade, thou knave, thou 
naughty knave, what trade ? 

2 Cit, Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out 
with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend 
you. 

Mar, What meanest thou by that? mend 
me, thou saucy fellow! 

2 Cit, Why, sir, cobble you. 

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? 

2 Cit, Truly, sir, all that I live by is with 
the awl : I meddle with no tradesman's matters, 
nor women's matters, but with awl. I am, in- 
deed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes ; when they are 
in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper 
men as ever trod upon neats-leather have gone 
upon my handiwork. 

Flav, But wherefore art not in thy shop 
to-day ? 
Why dost thou lead these men about the 
streets ? 

2 Cit, Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, 
to get myself into more work. But, indeed, 

280 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to re- 
joice in his triumph. 

In t.^King Henry VI " the rebel Cade Is 
made highly ludicrous by his own exhibitions of 
ignorance and lack of intelligence. The char- 
acterisation is especially strong when he ad- 
dresses his followers at Blackheath: 

Cade. Be brave, then; for your captain is 
brave, and vows reformation. There shall be 
in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a 
penny: the three-hooped pot shall have ten 
hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small 
beer: all the realm shall be in common; and in 
Cheapslde shall my palfrey go to grass: and 
when I am king, — as king I will be, — 

AIL God save your majesty I 

Cade. I thank you good people : — there 
shall be no money ; all shall eat and drink on my 
score; and I will apparel them all in one livery, 
that they may agree like brothers, and worship 
me their lord. 

Dick. The first thing we do, let^s kill all the 
lawyers. 

Cade. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this 
a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an inno- 
cent lamb should be made parchment? that 
parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a 
man? Some say the bee stings; but I say 'tis 

281 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

the bee's wax; for I did but seal once to a thing, 
and I was never mine own man since. . . . 

In a later scene, at Smithfield, the arch-rebel 
thus arraigns the captive Lord Say: 

Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the 
youth of the realm in erecting a grammar 
school: and whereas, before, our forefathers 
had no other books but the score and the tally, 
thou hast caused printing to be used; and, con- 
trary to the king, his crown, and dignity, thou 
hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to 
thy face that thou hast men about thee that 
usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such 
abominable words as no Christian ear can en- 
dure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of 
peace, to call poor men before them about mat- 
ters they were not able to answer. Moreover, 
thou hast put them in prison; and because they 
could not read, thou hast hanged them; when, 
indeed, only for that cause they have been most 
worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, 
dost thou not ? 

Say, What of that? 

Cade, Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy 
horse wear a cloak, when honester men than 
thou go In their hose and doublets. 

The cynical wit of the evil-minded lago Is 
strikingly shown in the second act of " Othello.'* 

282 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

The scene Is at Cyprus. Desdemona, bride of 
the Moor, and Emilia, her waiting-woman and 
wife to lago, enter and are greeted by Cassio, 
lieutenant to Othello. 

Cassio. Let it not gall your patience, good 
lago. 
That I extend my manners; 'tis my breeding 
That gives me this bold show of courtesy. 

{Kissing her.) 
lago. Sir, would she give you so much of 
her lips 
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, 
You'd have enough. 

Des. Alas, she has no speech. 

lago. In faith, too much; 
I find it still when I have list to sleep : 
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant, 
She puts her tongue a little in her heart. 
And chides with thinking. 

Emil. You have little cause to say so. 
lago. Come on, come on; you are pictures 
out of doors. 
Bells in your parlours, wild cats In your kitch- 
ens, 
^Saints In your injuries, devils being of- 
fended. 
• ••••• 

Des. What wouldst thou write of me if 
thou shouldst praise me? 
,283 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

I ago, O gentle lady, do not put me to 't; 
For I am nothing if not critical. 

• • • • ' • • 

If she be fair and wise, — fairness and wit, 
The one's for use, the other useth it. 

Des, Well prals'd! How if she be black 

and witty? 
I ago. If she be black, and thereto have a 
wit, 
She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit. 
Des. Worse and worse. 



Des, But what praise couldst thou bestow 
on a deserving woman indeed, — one that, in 
the authority of her merit, did justly put on the 
vouch of very malice itself? 

lago. She that was ever fair, and never 
proud; 
Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud; 
Never lack'd gold, and yet went never gay; 
Fled from her wish, and yet said. Now I may; 
She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh. 
Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure 

fly; , , . 
She that could think, and ne'er disclose her 

mind; 
See suitors following, and not look behind; 
She was a wight, if ever such wight were, — 
Des, To do what? 

284 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

lago. To suckle fools and chronicle small 
beer. 

Des. O most lame and Impotent conclu- 
sion! 

One of the most interesting of Shakespeare's 
characters is Mercutio, in " Romeo and Juliet," 
who falls a victim to the deadly feud between 
the Capulets and Montagues. He is distin- 
guished for light-hearted merriment, alert wit 
and playful fancy. In a street scene he ex- 
changes jests with Romeo. 

Rom, I dreamt a dream to-night. 

Mer, • And so did I. 

Rom, Well, what was yours? 

Mer, That dreamers often lie. 

Rom, In bed asleep, while they do dream 

things true. 
Mer, O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been 
with you. 
She is the fairies' midwife; and she comes 
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman, 
Drawn with a team of little atomies 
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : 
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' 

legs ; 
The cover, of the wings of ^asshoppers; 
The traces, of the smallest spider's web; 

285 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams; 
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; 
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, 
Not half so big as a round little worm 
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid: 
Her chariot Is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, 
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. 
And In this state she gallops night by night 
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of 

love: 
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sles 

straight; 
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on 

fees ; 
O'er ladles' lips, who straight on kisses 

dream, — 
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, 
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted 

are: 
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; 
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail. 
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of another benefice : 
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck. 
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades. 
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon 
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes ; 

286 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or 

two. 
And sleeps again. 

Before he met Juliet, and fell in love with 
her at sight, Romeo had made no secret of his 
transitory passion for Rosaline, and openly 
' grieved because she was unmoved. This gives 
point to the ridicule cast upon him by Friar 
Lawrence In the following colloquy, when 
Romeo visits him in his cell: 

Fri. L. Be plain, good son, and homely In 
thy drift; 
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. 
Rom, Then plainly know my heart's dear 
love is set 
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet: 
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine; 
And all combin'd, save what thou must combine 
By holy marriage: when, and where, and how 
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, 
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray. 
That thou consent to marry us to-day. 

Fri. L. Holy St. Francis ! what a change is 
here! 
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear, 
So soon forsaken? young men's love, then, lies 
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. 
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine 

287 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline I 
How much salt water thrown away In waste, 
To season love, that of it doth not taste ! 
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, 
Thy old groans ring yet In my ancient ears; 
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit 
Of an old tear that Is not wash'd off yet: 
If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine. 
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline : 
And art thou chang'd? pronounce this sen- 
tence, then, — 
Women may fall, when there's no strength in 
men. 
Rom. Thou chldd'st me oft for loving 

Rosaline. 
Fri. L. For doting, not for loving, pupil 

mine. 
Rom. And bad'st me bury love. 
Fri. L. Not In a grave. 

To lay one in, another out to have. 

Rom, I pray thee, chide not: she whom I 
love now 
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow; 
The other did not so. 

Fri. L. O, she knew well 

Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell. 

An amusing scene Is that between Juliet and 
her old nurse, by whom she had sent Romeo a 
message. Juliet Is wildly Impatient for her an- 

288 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

swer, which the nurse, with characteristic stub- 
bornness and beating about the bush, delays to 
give when she returns. 

Enter Nurse and Peter. 

Jul, ... O honey nurse, what news ? 
Hast thou met with him ? Send thy man away. 
Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. 

[^Exit Peter. 
Jul, Now, good sweet nurse, — O Lord, 
why look'st thou sad? 
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; 
If good, thou sham'st the music of sweet news 
By playing it to me with so sour a face. 

Nurse. I am a-weary, give me leave a- 
whlle ; — 
Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I 
had! 
Jul, I would thou hadst my bones and I thy 
news : 
Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; — good, good 
nurse, speak. 
Nurse, Jesu, what haste? can you not stay 
awhile ? 
Do you not see that I am out of breath? 

Jul. How art thou out of breath, when 
thou hast breath 
To say to me that thou art out of breath? 
The excuse that thou dost make in this delay 

289 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. 
Is thy news good or bad? answer to that; 
Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance: 
Let me be satisfied, is 't good or bad? 

Nurse, Well, you have made a simple 
choice; you know not how to choose a man: 
Romeo! no, not he; though his face be better 
than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's ; and 
for a hand, and a foot, and a body, — though 
they be not to be talked on, yet they are past 
compare : he is not the flower of courtesy, — 
but I'll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. — Go 
thy ways, wench ; serve God. — What, have you 
dined at home ? 

Jul. No, no : but all this did I know before. 
What says he of our marriage? What of 
that? 

Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! what a 
head have I ! 
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. 
My back o' t' other side, — O, my back, my 

back ! — 
Beshrew your heart for sending me about 
To catch my death with jaunting up and down! 

Jul. V faith, I am sorry that thou art not 
well. 
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says 
my love? 

Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gen- 
tleman. 
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, 

290 



WIT AND H U M O U R 

And, I warrant, a virtuous, — Where is your 
mother ? 
Jul. Where is my mother ! — why, she is 
within ; 
Where should she be? How oddly thou re- 

pliest! 
Your love says, like an honest gentleman, — 
Where is your mother? 

Nurse. O, God's lady dear I 

Are you so hot? marry, come up, I trow; 
Is this the poultice for my aching bones? 
Henceforward, do your messages yourself. 
-—/«/. Here's such a coil ! — come, what says 
Romeo ? 
Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift 

to-day ? 
Jul. I have. 

Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Law- 
rence' cell; 
There stays a husband to make you a 
wife. . . . 
Jul. Hie to high fortune ! — honest nurse, 
farewell. 

Peter, a servant, talks to musicians in Capu- 

let's house: 

Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I 
will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up 
my iron dagger. — Answer me like men : 

When griping grief the heart doth wound, 

And doleful dumps the mind oppress, 
Then music with her silver sound -i- 

291 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

why silver sound? why music with her silver 
sound f — What say you, Simon Catling? 

1 Mus, Marry, sir, because silver hath a 
sweet sound. 

Pet, Pretty ! — What say you, Hugh Re- 
beck? 

2 Mus. I say silver sound because musi- 
cians sound for silver. 

Pet. Pretty tool — What say you, James 
Sound-post? 

3 Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. 
Pet. O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: 

I will say for you. It Is music with her silver 
sound because musicians have no gold for 
sounding: — 

Then music with her silver sound 
With speedy help doth lend redress. 

An encounter of wits between Romeo and 
Mercutio In a street meeting: 

Mer. Well said: follow me this jest now 
till thou hast worn out thy pump ; that when the 
single sole of It Is worn, the jest may remain, 
after the wearing, sole singular. 

Rom. O single-soled jest, solely singular 
for the singleness I 

Mer. Come between us, good Benvollo; 
my wits faint. 

Rom, Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; 
or ril cry a match. 

292 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Mer. Nay, If thy wits run the wild-goose 
chase, I have done; for thou hast more of the 
wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, 
I have In my whole five: was I with you there 
for the goose? 

Rom. Thou wast never with me for any- 
thing when thou wast not there for the goose. 

Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that 
jest. 

Rom, Nay, good goose, bite not. , 

Mer, Thy wit Is a very bitter sweeting; it ; 
Is a most sharp sauce. ^ 

Rom, And Is it not well served in to a 
sweet goose ? 

Mer, O, here's a wit of cheverll, that 
stretches from an Inch narrow to an ell broad I 

Rom. I stretch It out for that word, broad: 
which added to the goose, proves thee far and 
wide a broad goose. 

Mer. Why, Is not this better now than 
groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now 
art thou Romeo. 

Claudiua^^ King of Denmark, is murdered by 
his brother, who pourS poison In his ears while 
he sleeps. The murderer then occupies the 
throne and marries the widow of the dead 
king. Prince Hamlet, son of Claudius, is In- 
formed by his father's ghost of the secret 

293 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

crime, and Is sworn to vengeance. The posi- 
tion of the prince In the court and household of 
the usurper being one of peril, It is needful for 
him to conceal his knowledge of the truth, and, 
while waiting opportunity for revenge, to mask 
his real feelings and purposes. The better to 
disarm suspicion, he at times, as occasion arises, 
pretends to be mentally deranged. 

Hamlet's uncle, however, is uneasy, and In- 
structs Guildenstern, a false friend of the 
prince, and also the Lord Chamberlain Polo- 
nlus, a very politic and dissembling old courtier, 
to ascertain his state of mind, his secret thoughts 
and aims. The manner of Guildenstern's final 
rebuff by the wary and keen-witted prince Is 
shown in the first of the following extracts 
from the play of " Hamlet," and also the 
prince's Intentional mystification of Polonlus. 
The prince is really amusing himself at the ex- 
pense of the Lord Chamberlain, who echoes 
Hamlet's seemingly distraught and contradic- 
tory remarks. 

Ham. Will you play upon this pipe? 
GuiL My lord, I cannot. 
Ham, I pray you. 
GuiL Believe me, I cannot. 

294 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Ham, I do beseech you. 

GuiL I know no touch of it, my lord. 

Ham. 'Tis as easy as lying: govern these 
ventages with your finger and thumb, give it 
breath with your mouth, and it will discourse 
most eloquent music. Look you, these are the 
stops. 

Guil, But these cannot I command to any 
utterance of harmony; I have not the skill. 

Ham, Why, look you now, how unworthy 
a thing you make of me I You would play 
upon me; you would seem to know my stops; 
you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; 
you would sound me from my lowest note to 
the top of my compass : and there is much mu- 
sic, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet can- 
not you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think 
that I am easier to be played on than a pipe? I 
Call me what instrument you will, though you 
can fret me you cannot play upon me. 

Enter POLONlus. 

God bless you, sir ! 

PoL My lord, the queen would speak with 
you, and presently. 

Ham. Do you see yonder cloud that's 
almost In shape of a camel ? 

Pol. By the mass, and *tis like a camel in- 
deed. 

Ham. Methinks It is like a weasel. 

295 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Pol, It Is backed like a weasel. 

Ham, Or like a whale? 

Pol, Very like a whale. 

Ham. Then will I come to my mother by 
and by. — They fool me to the top of my bent. 
— I will come by and by. 

Pol, I will say so. 

Ham, By and by is easily said. [Exit, 



A Churchyard, Enter two Clowns with 

spades^ ^c, 

1 Clo, Is she to be buried in Christian bur- 
ial that wilfully seeks her own salvation? 

2 Clo, I tell thee she is; and therefore 
make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat 
on her, and finds it Christian burial. 

1 Clo. How can that be, unless she 
drowned herself In her own defence? 

2 Clo, Why, 'tis found so. 

1 Clo, It must be se offendendo; It cannot 
be else. For here lies the point: if I drown 
myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act 
hath three branches; it is to act, to do, and to 
perform : argal, she drowned herself wittingly. 

2 Clo, Nay, but hear you, goodman del- 
ver, — 

I Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the wa- 
ter* good: here stands the man; good: If the 
man go to this water and drown himself, It is, 

296 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

will he, nill he, he goes, — mark you that : but 
if the water come to him and drown him, 
he drowns not himself: argal, he that Is not 
guilty of his own death shortens not his own 
life. 

2 Clo. But IS this law? 

1 Clo, Ay, marry, is 't; crowner's quest 
law. 

2 Clo, Will you ha' the truth on 't? If 
this had not been a gentlewoman she should 
have been buried out of Christian burial. 

1 Clo. Why, there thou say'st: and the 
more pity that great folk should have counte- 
nance in this world to drown or hang them- 
selves more than their even Christian. — Come, 
my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but 
gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they 
hold up Adam's profession. 

2 Clo, Was he a gentleman? 

1 Clo, He was the first that ever bore 
arms. 

2 Clo. Why, he had none. 

1 Clo, What, art a heathen? How dost 
thou understand the Scripture? The Scrip- 
ture says, Adam digged: could he dig without 
arms? I'll put another question to thee: if 
thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess 
thyself, — 

2 Clo. Go to. 

I Clo. What is he that builds stronger 

297 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

than either the mason, the shipwright, or the 
carpenter? 

2 Clo, The gallows-maker; for that frame 
outlives a thousand tenants. 

1 Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith: 
the gallows does well; but how does it well? it 
does well to those that do ill: now thou dost 
ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the 
church : argal, the gallows may do well to thee. 
To 't again, come. 

2 Clo. Who builds stronger than a mason, 
a shipwright, or a carpenter? 

1 Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. 

2 Clo. Marry, now I can tell. 

1 Clo. To 't. 

2 Clo. Mass, I cannot tell. 

Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance. 
I Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, 
for your dull ass will not mend his pace with 
beating; and when you are asked this question 
next, say a grave-maker; the houses that he 
makes last till doomsday. 

• ••••• 

[Throws up a skull. 
Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and 
could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the 
ground, as if it were Cain's jawbone, that did 
the first murder ! This might be the pate of a 
politician, which this ass now o'erreaches; one 
that would circumvent God, might it not? 

298 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Hor, It might, my lord. 

Ham, Or of a courtier; which could say, 
Good-morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, 
good lord? This might be my lord such-a-one, 
that praised my lord such-a-one's horse, when 
he meant to beg it, — might it not? 

Hor, Ay, my lord. 

Ham, Why, e'en so: and now my Lady 
Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the 
mazard with a sexton's spade: here's fine rev- 
olution, an we had the trick to see 't. Did 
these bones cost no more the breeding but to 
play at loggats with 'em? mine ache to think 
on 't. 



[Clown throws up another skull. 
Ham, There's another: why may not that 
be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quid- 
dits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and 
his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave 
now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty 
shovel, and will not tell him of his action of 
battery? Hum! This fellow might be in 's 
time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, 
his recognisances, his fines, his double vouch- 
ers, his recoveries: is this the fine of his fines, 
and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his 
fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers 
vouch him no more of his purchases, and dou- 

299 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

ble ones too, than the length and breadth of a 
pair of indentures? The very conveyances of 
his lands will hardly lie in this box; and must 
the inheritor himself have no more, ha? 

Hor. Not a jot more, my lord. 

Ham, Is not parchment made of sheep- 
skins ? 

Hor, Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too. 

Ham, They are sheep and calves which 
seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this 
fellow. — Whose grave's this, sir? 

I Clo. Mine, sir. — 

O, a pit of clay for to be made [Sings, 

For such a guest is meet. 

Ham, I think it be thine indeed; for thou 
liest in 't. 

I Clo, You lie out on 't sir, and therefore 
it is not yours: for my part, I do not lie in 't, 
and yet it is mine. 

Ham, Thou dost lie in 't, to be in 't, and 
say it is thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the 
quick; therefore thou liest. 

I Clo. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away 
again from me to you. 

Ham, What man dost thou dig It for? 

I Clo, For no man, sir. 

Ham, What woman, then? 

I Clo, For none, neither. 

Ham, Who is to be buried in 't? 

300 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

I Clo, One that was a woman, sir; but, 
rest her soul, she's dead. 

Ham, How absolute the knave is ! we must 
speak by the card, or equivocation will undo 
us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I 
have taken note of it; the age is grown so 
picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near 
the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe. — 
How long hast thou been a grave-maker? 

I Clo. Of all the days i' the year, I came 
to 't that day that our last Kmg Hamlet o'er- 
came Fortinbras. 

Ham, How long is that since? 

I Clo, Cannot you tell that? every fool 
can tell that: it was the very day that young 
Hamlet was born, — he that is mad, and sent 
into England. 

Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into 
England? 

I Clo, Why, because he was mad : he shall 
recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it's no 
great matter there. 

Ham. Why? 

I Clo. 'Twill not be seen In him there; 
there the men are as mad as he. 

Ham. How came he mad? 

I Clo, Very strangely, they say. 

Ham. How strangely ? 

I Clo. Faith, e'en with losing his wits. 

Ham. Upon what ground? 

301 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

I Clo. Why, here in Denmark: I have 
been sexton here, man and boy, thirty 
years. 

• • • • • • 

Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' 
this fashion i' the earth? 

Hor. E'en so. 

Ham. And smelt so ? pah ! 

[ Throws down the skull. 

Hor. E'en so, my lord. 

Ham. To what base uses we may return, 
Horatio ! Why may not imagination trace the 
noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping 
a bung-hole? 

Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously to 
consider so. 

Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow 
him thither with modesty enough, and like- 
lihood to lead it: as thus; Alexander died, Al- 
exander was buried, Alexander returneth into 
dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; 
and why of that loam whereto he was converted 
might they not stop a beer-barrel? 
Imperious Csesar, dead and turn'd to clay. 
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: 
O, that that earth which kept the world in awe 
Should patch a wall to expel the winter's 
flaw! — : 



302 



FOOLS AND CLOWNS 

Shakespeare seems to have used the words 
fool and clown indiscriminately to signify a pro- 
fessional jester. Thus in the list of " persons 
represented " in *' As You Like It " Touchstone 
is described as '* a clown or domestic fool." 
The jester in " Twelfth Night " is set down as 
*' a clown.*' But our author also uses the word 
clown to signify a rude and illiterate country 
lout or rustic. 

From a very early period in England, as in 
European countries generally, it was the prac- 
tice of kings and nobles to retain a fool or 
jester, who was allowed the utmost freedom in 
his personal references, a licence which often 
was carried far beyond what now would seem \^ 
the furthest bounds of toleration. The fool, 
however, was expected to entertain by his wit 
and skill in questioning and repartee. All of 
Shakespeare's fools are witty, and show a kind 
of wisdom in their jests. Thus Viola says of 
the *' clown " in " Twelfth Night " : 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

This fellow's wise enough to play the fool ; 

And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit: 

He must observe their mood on whom he jests. 

The quality of persons, and the time; 

And, like the haggard, check at every feather 

That comes before his eye. This is a practice 

As full of labour as a wise man's art: 

For folly, that he wisely shows, Is fit; 

But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit. 

And in the same play Olivia says: 

There Is no slander in an allowed fool, 
though he do nothing but rave. 

Some of the brightest and most oft-quoted 
sayings in the plays of Shakespeare come from 
the mouths of the wearers of motley and cap 
and bells. And there is much knowledge of 
human nature, as well as dehghtful humour in 
this observation by Touchstone, the domestic 
jester in " As You Like It " : 

When a man's verses cannot be understood, 
nor a man's good wit seconded with the for- 
ward child understanding, it strikes a man more 
dead than a great reckoning in a little room. 

It is Touchstone, too, who discriminates be- 
tween the " He circumstantial " and the " lie 

304 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

direct," and remarks the saving virtue of " your 
if," " the only peace-maker." 

An erratic or antic disposition seems to have 
been essential for success in the fool's calling, 
which is indicated by the remark of Dr. 
Thomas Fuller regarding the court jester, that 

" it is an office which none but he that hath wit 
can perform, and none but he that lacks it will 
perform." 

The four plays of Shakespeare in each of 
which a professional fool or clown figures are 
" King Lear," " As You Like It," " Twelfth 
Night," and " All's Well That Ends Well." 

The fool in " Lear " Is a most remarkable 
character, distinguished not only by his bitter 
and penetrating wit but also by his worldly 
philosophy and his touching devotion to his 
royal master. 

In this book the best of Touchstone's wit will 
be found under the title of " As You Like It," 
and of the clown in '* Twelfth Night," in the 
chapter devoted to that play. 

An illustrative example of the quality of the 
jester in " All's Well That Ends Well " is here 
subjoined, but the countess is more than a matck 
for him at his own game of banter ; 

305 



SHAKESPEARE'S 



RousiLLON. A Room in the Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter Countess and Clown. 

Count, Come on, sir; I shall now put you 
to the height of your breeding. 

Clo, I will show myself highly fed and 
lowly taught: I know my business is but to the 
court. 

Count. To the court! why, what place 
make you special, when you put off that with 
such contempt? But to the court! 

Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a 
man any manners, he may easily put it off at 
court : he that cannot make a leg, put off 's cap, 
kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, 
hands, lip, nor cap; and, indeed, such a fellow, 
to say precisely, were not fit for the court: but, 
for me, I have an answer will serve all 
men. 

• ••••• 

Count. Will your answer serve fit to all 
questions? 

• ••••• 

Clo. From below your duke to beneath 
your constable it will fit any question. 

Count. It must be an answer of most mon- 
strous size that must fit all demands. 

Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if 

306 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

the learned should speak truth of it: here it is, 
and all that belongs to 't. Ask me if I am a 
courtier : it shall do you no harm to learn. 

Count. To be young again, if we could: I 
will be a fool in question, hoping to be the 
wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you 
a courtier? 

Clo, O Lord, sir ! — There's a simple put- 
ting off; — more, more, a hundred of them. 

Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, 
that loves you. 

Clo. O Lord, sir! — Thick, thick; spare 
not me. 

Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of 
this homely meat. 

Clo. O Lord, sir ! — Nay, put me to 't, I 
warrant you. 

Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I 
think. 

Clo. O Lord, sir ! — spare not me. 

Count. Do you cry, O Lord, sir! at your 
whipping, and spare not me? Indeed, your O 
Lord, sir! is very sequent to your whipping: 
you would answer very well to a whipping, if 
you were but bound to 't. 

Clo. I ne'er had worse luck in my life in 
my — O Lord, sir! I see things may serve 
long, but not serve ever. 

Count. I play the noble housewife with the 
time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool. 

307 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Clo, O Lord, sir ! — Why, there 't serves 
well again. 

Count, An end, sir, to your business. Give 
Helen this. 
And urge her to a present answer back: 
Commend me to my kinsmen and my son: 
This is not much. 

Clo, Not much commendation to them. 

Count, Not much employment for you: 
you understand me? 

Clo. Most fruitfully: I am there before 
my legs. 

Count, Haste you again. 



The aged and choleric King Lear, before all 
his court, had called upon his three daughters 
to make declaration of their love for him. 
Two of them, Goneril and Regan, were pro- 
fuse in their professions of devotion, and to 
each he gave a third of his kingdom. But 
Cordelia, the remaining daughter, would pro- 
fess nothing more than such love and duty as Is 
due a father, reserving some portion of her 
love for him whom, haply, she would wed. 
This answer so angered the king that In his 
rage he cast her off, and disinherited her, di- 
viding the remaining third of his kingdom be- 
tween his other daughters, who ultimately 

308 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

repaid him with the basest ingratitude, con- 
temptuous and cruel treatment. But the king 
of France, present on this occasion, was so 
pleased with the truth and sincerity of Cordelia 
that he took her, dowerless, for his bride. 

The following scenes occur after Lear has 
foolishly divested himself of his kingdom and 
surrendered all authority and rule to the Dukes 
of Albany and Cornwall, husbands, respec- 
tively, of Goneril and Regan. 

The first scene is in the Duke of Albany's 
palace, where the banished Earl of Kent, in 
disguise and still faithful to Lear, trips up the 
heels of an impudent messenger from the duch- 
ess to the king. 

Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I thank "7 'X?, 
thee : there's earnest of thy service. 

[Giving Kent money. 

Fool. Let me hire him too; here's my cox- 
comb. [Giving Kent his cap. 

Lear. How now, my pretty knave I how 
dost thou? 

Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my cox- 
comb. 

Kent. Why, fool? 

Fool. Why, for taking one's part that's out 
of favour. 

• • • • A ■ • 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

Kent, This is nothing, fool. 

Fool. Then 'tis hke the breath of an un- 
fee'd lawyer, — you gave me nothing for 't. — 
Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle? 

Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made 
out of nothing. 

Fool. Pr'ythee, tell him, so much the rent 
of his land comes to : he will not believe a fool. 

[To Kent. 

Lear. A bitter fool! 

Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my 
boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet one? 
Lear. No, lad; teach me. 
Fool. That Lord that counsell'd thee 
To give away thy land, 
Come place him here by me, — 

Do thou for him stand: 
The sweet and bitter fool 
Will presently appear; 
The one in motley here, 
The other found out there. 
Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy? 
Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given 
away; that thou wast born with. 

Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord. 

Fool. No, faith, lords and great men will 

not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they 

would have part on 't, and loads too: they will 

not let me have all fool to myself; they'll be 

310 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

snatching. — Nuncle, give me an egg, and I'll 
give thee two crowns. 

Lear. What two crowns shall they be? 

FooL Why, after I have cut the egg i' the 
middle, and eat up the meat, the two crowns 
of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i* 
the middle, and gavest away both parts, thou 
borest thine ass on thy back o'er the dirt: thou 
hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou 
gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like 
myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds 
It so. 

Fools had ne'er less grace in a year; [^Singing. 

For wise men are grown foppish, 
And know not how their wits to wear, 

Their manners are so apish. 

Pr'ythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can 
teach thy fool to lie: I would fain learn to lie. 

Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we'll have you 
whipped. 

Fool. 1 marvel what kin thou and thy 
daughters are: they'll have me whipped for 
speaking true, thou'lt have me whipped for 
lying; and sometimes I am whipped for hold- 
ing my peace. I had rather be any kind o' 
thing than a fool : and yet I would not be thee, 
nuncle; thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides, 
and left nothing i' the middle. 

Lear, incensed by his daughter Gonerll's III 
treatment and ingratitude, denounces her and 

311 



CD^l 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

sets forth to make his home with Regan, from 
whom he is destined to receive even worse un- 
klndness. 

Scene— Court before the Duke of Al- 
bany's Palace. 

Fool. . . . Thou canst tell why one's nose 
stands V the middle on 's face ? 

Lear. No. 

Fool. Why to keep one's eyes of either side 
's nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he 
may spy Into. 

Lear. I did her wrong, — 

Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his 
shell? 

Lear. No. 

Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a 
snail has a house. 

Lear. Why ? 

Fool. Why, to put his head in; not to give 
it away to his daughters, and leave his horns 
without a case. 

Lear. I will forget my nature. So kind a 
father! — Be my horses ready? 

Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The 
reason why the seven stars are no more than 
seven is a pretty reason. 

Lear. Because they are not eight? 

Fool. Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a 
good fool. 

312 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Lear, To take 't again perforce I — Mon- 
ster ingratitude I 

Fool, If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd 
have thee beaten for being old before thy time. 

Lear. How's that? 

Fool, Thou shouldst not have been old till 
thou hadst been wise. 

Lear, O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet 
heaven ! 
Keep me in temper : I would not be mad I — 

A later scene, before the castle of the Earl 
of Gloucester. 

Fool. Winter's not gone yet, if the wild- 
geese fly that way. 
Fathers that wear rags 

Do make their children blind; 
But fathers that bear bags 
Shall see their children kind. 
• ••••• 

Kent, How chance the king comes with so 
small a number? 

Fool, An thou hadst been set I' the stocks 
for that question, thou hadst well deserved it. 

Kent, Why, fool? 

Fool. We'll set thee to school to an ant, to 
teach thee there's no labouring In the winter. 
. . . Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs 
down a hill, lest It break thy neck with follow- 
ing It; but the great one that goes up the hill, 



SHAKESPEARE'S 

let him draw thee after. When a wise man 
gives the better counsel, give me mine again: I 
would have none but knaves follow It, since a 
fool gives It. 

That sir which serves and seeks for gain, 

And follows but for form. 
Will pack when It begins to rain, 

And leave thee In the storm. 
But I will tarry; the fool will stay, 

And let the wise man fly: 
The knave turns fool that runs away; 

The fool no knave, perdy. 



Lear, O me, my heart, my rising heart! — 

but, down ! 
FooL Cry to It, nuncle, as the cockney did 
to the eels when she put them I' the paste alive; 
she knapped 'em o' the coxcombs with a stick, 
and cried, Down, wantons, down! 'Twas her 
brother that. In pure kindness to his horse, but- 
^ tered his hay. 

Filled with rage at the base ingratitude of his 
two daughters, who wish him to dispense with 
all his followers, the crazed Lear curses them 
and goes forth at night to wander upon a deso- 
late, storm-swept heath, attended only by the 
faithful Earl of Kent and " the bitter fool.'* 

314 



WIT AND HUMOUR 

Fool. He that has and a little tiny wit, — [Singing 
With heigh, ho, the wind and the rain, — \/ 

Must make content with his fortunes fit. 
Though the rain it raineth every day. 

Lear, True, boy. — Come, bring us to this 
hovel. [Exeunt Lear ajid Kent. 
Fool, . . . 
I'll speak a prophecy ere I go : — 

When priests are more in word than matter; 
When brewers mar their malt with water; 
When nobles are their tailors' tutors ; 
No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors; 
When every case in law is right; 
No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; 
When slanders do not live in tongues; 
Nor cutpurses come not to throngs; 

• ••••• 

Then shall the realm of Albion 

Come to great confusion : 

Then comes the time, who lives to see 't, 

That going shall be us'd with feet. 
This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live 
before his time. 




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